Jasper Fforde - The Well of Lost Plots

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Thursday Next: the story so far
Swindon, Wessex, England,
1985. SpecOps is the agency responsible for policing areas considered too specialised to be tackled by the regular force, and Thursday Next is attached to the literary detectives at SpecOps 27. Following the successful return of Jane Eyre to the novel of the same name, vanquishing master criminal Acheron Hades and bringing peace to the Crimean peninsula, she finds herself a minor celebrity.
On the trail of the seemingly miraculous discovery of the lost Shakespeare play
, she crosses swords with Yorrick Kaine, escapee from fiction and neo-fascist politician. She also finds herself blackmailed by the vast multinational known as the Goliath Corporation, who want their operative Jack Schitt out of Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Raven' in which he was imprisoned. To achieve this they call on Lavoisier, a corrupt member of the time-travelling SpecOps elite, the ChronoGuard, to kill off Thursday's husband. Travelling back thirty-eight years, Lavoisier engineers a fatal accident for the two-year-old Landen, but leaves Thursday's memories of him intact — she finds herself the only person who knows he once lived.
In an attempt to rescue her eradicated husband, she finds a way to enter fiction itself — and discovers that not only is there a policing agency within the BookWorld known as Jurisfiction, but that she has been apprenticed as a trainee agent to Miss Havisham of
. With her skills at bookjumping growing under Miss Havisham's stern and often unorthodox tuition, Thursday rescues Jack Schitt, only to discover she has been duped. Goliath have no intention of reactualising her husband, and instead want her to open a door into fiction, something Goliath has decided is a 'rich untapped marketplace' for their varied but ultimately worthless products and services.
Thursday, pregnant with Landen's child and pursued by Goliath and Acheron's little sister Aornis, an evil genius with a penchant for clothes shopping and memory modification, decides to enter the BookWorld and retire temporarily to the place where all fiction is created: the Well of Lost Plots. Taking refuge in an unpublished book of dubious quality as part of the Character Exchange Programme, she
she will have a quiet time.

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'The little slut serving wench deserved to die!' he screamed. 'How dare she spoil the happy life that could have been mine!'

I couldn't breathe and started to black out. I had wanted it to look realistic — and so, I suppose, did he.

Tweed placed a gun under Deane's chin and forced him off. He spat in my face as I lay there, trying to get my breath back. Deane was then set upon by Heep, who took an unhealthy delight in beating him despite the fact that he apologised in a supercilious manner every time he struck him.

'Stop!' yelled the Bellman. 'Calm down, all of you!'

They propped the now bleeding Deane in a chair and Heep bound his hands.

'Did you kill Perkins?' asked the Bellman and Deane nodded sullenly.

'He was going to blow the whistle on me — Havisham too. Snell and Mathias just got in the way. Happiness should have been mine!' he sobbed. 'Why did the slut have to turn up with that little bastard? I should have married Miss O'Shaugnessy — all I wanted was something no evil squire in Farquitt ever gets—!'

'And what was that?' asked the Bellman sternly.

'A happy ending.'

'Pitiful, wouldn't you say, Tweed?'

'Pitiful, yes, sir,' he replied stonily, staring at me as I picked myself off the floor.

The Bellman tore up my termination order.

'It looks as if we have underestimated you,' said the Bellman happily. 'I knew Havisham couldn't be wrong. Tweed, I think you owe Miss Next an apology.'

'I apologise unreservedly,' said Tweed through gritted teeth.

'Good,' said the Bellman. 'Now, Thursday, what's the problem with UltraWord™?'

It was a sticky moment. We had to take this higher than the Bellman. With Libris and the whole of Text Grand Central involved, there was no knowing what they would do. I remembered an error from an early UltraWord™ test version.

'Well,' I began, 'I think there is a flight manual conflict. If you read an UltraWord™ book on an airship, it can play havoc with the flight manuals.'

'That's been cured,' said the Bellman kindly, 'but thank you for being so diligent.'

'That's a relief I replied. 'May I have some leave?'

'Of course. And if you find any other irregularities in UltraWord™, I want them brought to me and me alone.'

'Yes, sir. May I?'

I indicated my TravelBook.

'Of course! Very impressive job capturing Deane, don't you think, Tweed?'

'Yes,' replied Tweed grimly, 'very impressive — well done, Next.'

I opened my TravelBook and read myself to Solomon's outer office. Tweed wouldn't try anything at the C of G, and the following three days were crucial. Everything I needed to say to the Bellman would have to wait until I had seven million witnesses.

32

The 923rd Annual BookWorld Awards

'The annual BookWorld Awards (or Bookies) were instigated in 1063 CE and for the first two hundred years were dominated by Aeschylus and Homer, who won most of the awards in the thirty or so categories. Following the expansion in fiction and the inclusion of the oral tradition, categories totalled two hundred by 1423. Technical awards were introduced twenty years later and included "Most-Used English Word" and the "Most Widely Mispelt Word", witch has remained a contentious subject ever since. By 1879 there were over six hundred categories but neither the length of the awards nor the vote-rigging scandal in 1964 dented the popularity of this glittering occasion — it will remain one of the BookWorld's most popular fixtures for years to come.'

CMDR TRAFFORD BRADSHAW, CBE — Bradshaw’s Guide to the BookWorld

I stood offstage at the Starlight Room, one in a long line of equally minor celebrities, all awaiting our turn to go and read the nominations. The hospitality lounge where we had all been mustered was about the size of a football pitch, and the massed babble of excited voices sounded like rushing water. I had been trying to avoid Tweed all evening. But whenever I lost him Heep would take over. There were others about, too. Bradshaw had pointed out Orlick and Legree, two other assistants of Tweed's that he thought I should be wary of.

Of them all, Heep was the most amateur. His skills at unobserved observation were woefully inadequate.

'Well!' he said when I caught him staring at me. 'You and me both waiting for awards!' He rubbed his hands and tapped his long fingers together. 'I ask you, me all humble and you an Outlander. Thanks to you and the mispeling incident I'm up for "Most Creepy Character in a Dickens Novel". What would you be up for?'

'I'm giving one, not accepting one, Uriah — and why are you following me?'

'Apologies, ma'am,' he said, squirming slightly and clasping his hands together to try to stop them moving. 'Mr Tweed asked me to keep a particular close eye on you in case of an attack, ma'am.'

'Oh yes?' I replied, unimpressed by the lame cover story. 'From whom?'

'Those who would wish you harm, of course. ProCaths, bowdlerisers — even the townspeople from Shadow . It was them what tried to kill you at Solomon's, I'll be bound.'

Sadly, it was true. There had been two attempts on my life since Deane's arrest. The first had been a tiger released in Kenneth's office. I thought at first it was Big Martin catching up with me — but it wasn't. Bradshaw had dealt with the creature; he sent it on a one-way trip to Zenobians . The second had been a contract killing. Fortunately for me Heep's handwriting was pretty poor and Thursby from The Maltese Falcon was shot instead. It was only because I was an Outlander that I was still alive — if I'd been a Generic I could have been erased at source long ago.

'Mr Tweed said that Outlanders have to stick together,' continued Heep, 'and look after each other. Outlanders have a duty—'

'This is all really very sweet of him,' I interrupted, 'but I can look after myself. Good luck with your award; I'm sure you'll win.'

'Thank you!' he said, fidgeting for a moment before moving off a little way and continuing to stare at me in an unsubtle manner.

I was summoned towards the stage, where I could see the master of ceremonies winding up the previous award. He reminded me of Adrian Lush — all smiles, insincerity and bouffant hair.

'So,' he continued, ' "teleportation" a clear winner for the "Most Implausible Premise in an SF Novel" which was hard luck on "And they lived happily after" which won last year. If I could thank all the nominees and especially Ginger Hebblethwaite for presenting it.'

There was applause and a freckled youth in a flying jacket waved to the crowd and winked at me as he trotted offstage.

The MC took a deep breath and consulted his list. Unlike awards at home there was no TV coverage as no one in the BookWorld had a TV. You didn't need one. The Generics who had remained in the books as a skeleton staff to keep the stories in order were kept up to date with a live footnoterphone link from the Starlight Room. With all the usual characters away at the awards, fiction wasn't quite so good, but no one generally noticed. This was often the reason why people in the Outland argued over the quality of a recommended book. They had read it during the Bookies.

'The next award, ladies, gentlemen and — er — things , is to be given by the newest Jurisfiction agent to join the ranks of the BookWorld's own policing agency. Fresh from a glittering career in the Outland and engineer of the improved ending to Jane Eyre , may I present — Thursday Next—!'

There was applause and I walked on, smiling dutifully. I air-kissed the MC and looked out into the auditorium.

It was vast. Really vast. The Starlight Room was the largest single function room ever described in any book. A lit candelabrum graced each of the hundred thousand tables, and as I looked into the room all I could see was a never-ending field of white lights, flickering in the distance like stars. Seven million characters were here tonight, but by using a very convenient temporal field displacement technology borrowed from the boys in the SF genre, everyone in the room had a table right next to the stage and could hear and see us with no problems at all.

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