Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

‘How… how would he have turned out?’

She started to cry, large tears that rolled uninhibited down her cheeks, tears of loss, tears for what might have been.

‘He was wonderful !’ I returned gratefully. ‘Witty and generous and tall and clever—you would have been so proud!’

‘What did he become?’

‘A novelist,’ I explained. ‘Last year he won the Armitage Shanks Fiction Award for Bad Sofa . He lost a leg in the Crimea. We were married two months ago.’

‘Were we there?’

I looked at them both and said nothing Houson had been there, of course, shedding tears of joy for us both—but Billden… well, Billden had swapped his life for Landen’s when he returned to the submerged car and ended up in the Swindon Municipal Cemetery instead. We stood for a moment or two, the three of us lamenting the loss of Landen Houson broke the silence.

‘I think it would really be better for all concerned if you left now,’ she said quietly, ‘and please don’t come back.’

‘Wait!’ I said. ‘Was there someone there, someone who stopped you from rescuing him?’

‘More than one,’ replied Billden. ‘Five or six—one woman; I was sat upon—’

‘Was one a Frenchman? Tall, distinguished looking? Named Lavoisier, perhaps?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Billden sadly, ‘it was a long time ago.’

‘You really have to leave now,’ repeated Houson in a forthright tone.

I sighed, thanked them, and they shuffled back inside and closed the door.

I walked out through the garden gate and sat in my car, trying to contain the emotion within me so I could think straight. I was breathing heavily and my hands were clenched so tightly on the steering wheel my knuckles showed white. How could SpecOps do this to me? Was this Flanker’s way of compelling me to talk about my father? I shook my head. Futzing with the timestream was a crime punishable by almost unimaginable brutality. I couldn’t imagine Flanker would have risked his career—and his life—on a move so rash.

I took a deep breath and leaned forward to press the starter button.

As I did so I glanced into my wing mirror and saw a Packard parked on the other side of the road. There was a well-dressed figure leaning on the wing, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette and looking in my direction. It was Schitt-Hawse. He appeared to be smiling. Suddenly, the whole plan came into sharp focus. Jack Schitt. What had Schitt-Hawse threatened me with? Corporate impatience? My anger re-established itself.

Muttering ‘Bastard!’ under my breath. I jumped out of the car and walked briskly and purposefully towards Schitt-Hawse, who stiffened slightly as I approached. I ignored a car that screeched to a halt inches from me, and as Schitt-Hawse took a pace forward I put out both hands and pushed him hard against the car. He lost his footing and fell heavily to the ground; I was quickly upon him, grabbed his shirt lapels and raised a fist to punch him. But the blow never fell. In my blind anger I had failed to see that his associates Chalk and Cheese were close by, and they did their job admirably, efficiently and, yes, painfully too. I fought like hell and was gratified that in the confusion I managed to kick Schitt-Hawse hard on the kneecap—he yelped in pain. But my victory, such as it was, was short lived. I must have been a tenth of their combined weight and my struggles were soon in vain. They held me tightly, and Schitt-Hawse approached with an unpleasant smile etched upon his pinched features.

I did the first thing I could think of. I spat in his face. I’d never tried it before but it turned out delightfully, I got him right in the eye.

He raised the back of his hand to strike me but I didn’t flinch—I just stared at him, anger burning in my eyes. He stopped, lowered his hand and wiped his face with a crisply laundered pocket handkerchief.

‘You are going to have to control that temper of yours, Next.’

‘That’s Mrs Parke-Laine to you.’

‘Not any more. If you’d stop struggling perhaps we could talk sensibly, like adults. You and I need to come to an arrangement .’

I gave up squirming and the two men relaxed their grip. I straightened my clothes and glared at Schitt-Hawse, who rubbed his knee.

‘What sort of arrangement?’ I demanded.

‘A trade,’ he answered. ‘Jack Schitt for Landen.’

‘Oh yes?’ I retorted ‘And how do I know I can trust you?’

‘You don’t and you can’t,’ replied Schitt-Hawse simply, ‘but it’s the best offer you’re going to get.’

‘My father will help me.’

Schitt-Hawse laughed.

‘Your father is a washed-out clock jockey. I think you overestimate his chances—and his talents. Besides, we’ve got the summer of 1947 locked down so tight not even a trans-temporal gnat could get back there without us knowing about it. Retrieve Jack from The Raven and you can have your own dear hubby back.’

‘And how do you propose I do that?’

‘You’re a resourceful and intelligent woman—I’m sure you’ll think of something. Do we have a deal?’

I stared hard at him, shaking with fury. Then, almost without thinking, I had my automatic pressed against Schitt-Hawse’s forehead. I heard two safety catches click off behind me. Associates Chalk and Cheese were fast, too.

Schitt-Hawse seemed unperturbed; he smiled at me in a supercilious manner and ignored the weapon.

‘You won’t kill me, Next,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s not the way you do things. It might make you feel better but believe me it won’t get your Landen back and Mr Chalk and Mr Cheese would make quite sure you were dead long before you hit the asphalt.’

Schitt-Hawse was good. He’d done his homework and he hadn’t underestimated me one little bit. I’d do all I could to get Landen back and he knew it. I reholstered my pistol.

‘Splendid!’ he enthused. ‘We’ll be hearing from you in due course, I trust, hmm?’

I stared after their departing car, trying to figure out what to do. Finding a way into The Raven to release Jack Schitt would be my first priority. It wasn’t going to be hard—it was going to be impossible. It wouldn’t deter me. I’d done impossible things several times in the past and the prospect didn’t scare me as much as it used to.

A patrol car drew up beside me and the driver rolled down his window. It was officer ‘Spike’ Stoker of SpecOps 17—the vampire and werewolf disposal operation, or ‘Suckers & Biters’ as they preferred to call themselves. I had helped him out once on a vampire stake-out; dealing with the undead is not a huge barrel of fun, but I liked Spike a great deal.

He saw the consternation in my face and asked in a friendly tone:

‘What happens, Next?’

‘Hi, Spike. Goliath happens, that’s what.’

‘Word is you lipped Flanker.’

‘Good news travels fast, doesn’t it?’

Spike thought about this for a moment, turned down the wireless and got out of his car.

‘If the shit hits the fan I can offer you some freelance staking for cash at Suckers & Biters; the minimum entry requirements have been reduced to “anyone mad enough to join me”.’