Jasper Fforde - The Well of Lost Plots

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. Quite 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 in 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' hitmen — 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 possess.'

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

'You heard me. Everyone thinks it's easy to be a plotsmith.' He stabbed a finger in Prometheus' direction. 'Well, let me tell you Mr smart-alec-Greek-Titan-fire-giver, I didn't spend four years at plotschool to be told my job by an ex-convict!'

Prometheus' lip quivered.

'Okay,' he snarled, pulling up his sleeves. '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 favour , 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 sub-plots to write for proper, paying, clients!'

And without another word, he vanished.

'Well,' said Prometheus, getting into the back seat, '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.'

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 when 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 dreamed of Landen — and wasn't interrupted during the good parts, either.

'I share your grief for Miss Havisham,' murmured Beatrice when I arrived at Norland Park.

'Thank you.'

'Rotten luck,' said Falstaff as I walked past. 'There were the remains of a fine woman about Havisham.'

'Thank you.'

'Miss Next?'

It was the Bellman.

'Can I have a word?'

I walked over with him to his office and he shut the door.

'Firstly, I am very sorry about Miss Havisham. Secondly, I'm having you moved to less demanding duties.'

'I'm fine, really,' I assured him.

'I'm sure you are — but since you have only recently qualified and are without a mentor, we felt it was better if you were taken off the active list for a while.'

' "We"?'

He picked up his clipboard which had beeped at him. Havisham had told me that he never actually placed any papers in the all-important clipboard — the words were beamed directly there from Text Grand Central.

'The Council of Genres has taken a personal interest in your case,' he said after reading the clipboard. 'I think they felt you were too valuable to lose through stress — an Outlander in Jurisfiction is quite a coup, as you know. You have powers of self-determination that we can only dream of. Take it in the good spirit it is meant, won't you?'

'So I don't get to take Havisham's place at Jurisfiction?'

'I'm afraid not. Perhaps when the dust has settled. Who knows? In the BookWorld, anything is possible.'

He handed me a scrap of paper.

'Report to Solomon on the twenty-sixth floor. Good luck!'

I got up, thanked the Bellman and left his office. There was silence as I walked back past the other agents, who looked at me apologetically. I had been canned through no fault of my own, and everyone knew it. I sat down at Havisham's desk and looked at all her stuff. She had been replaced by a Generic in Expectations , and although they would look almost identical, it could never be the same person. The Havisham that I knew had been lost at Pendine Sands. I sighed. Perhaps demotion was a good thing. After all, I did have a lot to learn and working with the C of G for a bit probably had its merits.

'Miss Next?'

It was Commander Bradshaw.

'Hello, sir.'

He smiled and raised his hat.

'Would you care to have tea with me on the veranda?'

'I'd be delighted.'

He smiled, took me by the arm and jumped us both into Bradshaw Hunts Big Game . I had never been to East Africa, either in our world or this, but it was as beautiful as I had imagined it from the many images I had grown up with. Bradshaw's house was a low colonial building with a veranda facing the setting sun; the land around the house was wild scrub and whistling thorns, herds of wildebeest and zebra wandering across in a desultory manner, their hoofs kicking up red dust as they moved.

'Quite beautiful, wouldn't you say?'