Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

‘Thursday, are you okay?’

I took a deep breath and rubbed my neck.

‘No, no, I’m not,’ I gabbled. ‘You see, my husband was eradicated this afternoon. I went to see SO-1 and just before I went in the walls changed colour and Stig talked funny and Flanker didn’t know I was married—which I’m not, I suppose—and then Houson didn’t know me and Billden wasn’t in the Municipal Cemetery but Landen was and Goliath said they’d bring him back if I got Jack Schitt out and I thought I’d lost Landen’s baby which I haven’t so everything was fine and now it’s not fine any more because I’ve found an extra toothbrush and some men’s clothes in the bathroom .’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Bowden in a soothing voice. ‘Slow down a bit and just let me think.’

There was a pause as he mulled all this over. When he answered his voice was tinged with urgency—and concern. I knew he was a good friend, but until now I never knew how good.

‘Thursday. Calm down and listen to me. Firstly, we keep this to ourselves. Eradication can never be proved—mention this to anyone at SpecOps and the quacks will enforce your retirement on a Form D4. We don’t want that. I’ll try and fill you in with any lost memories I might have that you don’t. What was the name of your husband again?’

‘Landen.’

I found strength in his approach. You could always rely on Bowden to be analytical about a problem—no matter how strange it might seem. He made me go over the day again in more detail, something that I found very calming. I asked him again about a possible boyfriend.

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘You’re kind of a private person.’

‘Come on—office rumours, SpecOps gossip; there must be something .’

‘There is some talk but I don’t hear a lot of it since I’m your partner. Your love life is a matter of some quiet speculation. They call you—’

He went quiet.

‘What do they call me, Bowden?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Tell me.’

‘All right.’ Bowden sighed. ‘It’s… they call you the Ice Maiden.’

‘The Ice Maiden?’

‘It’s not as bad as my nickname,’ continued Bowden. ‘I’m known as Dead Dog.’

‘Dead Dog?’ I repeated, trying to sound as though I’d not heard it before. ‘Ice Maiden, eh? It’s kind of, well, corny . Couldn’t they think of something better? Anyway, did I have a boyfriend or not?’

‘There was a rumour of someone over at SO-14—’

I held up the croquet jacket, trying to figure out how tall this unnamed beau might be.

‘Do we have a positive ID?’

‘I think it’s only a rumour, Thursday.’

‘Tell me, Bowden.’

‘Miles,’ he said at last. ‘His name’s Miles Hawke.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘I have no idea. You don’t talk about these things to me.’

I thanked him and put the phone down nervously, butterflies dancing in my stomach. I knew I was still pregnant, but the trouble was: who was the father ? If I had a casual boyfriend named Miles, then perhaps it wasn’t Landen’s after all? I quickly called my mother, who seemed more preoccupied with putting out a fire on the kitchen stove than talking to me. I asked her when she had last met one of my boyfriends and she said that, if memory served, not for at least six years, and if I didn’t hurry up and get married she was going to have to adopt some grandchildren—or steal some from outside Tesco’s, whichever was easier. I told her I would go out and look for one as soon as possible and put the phone down.

I paced the room in a flurry of nerves. If I hadn’t introduced this Miles bloke to Mum, then it was quite likely he wasn’t that serious; yet if he did leave his gear here then it undoubtedly was . I had an idea and rummaged in the bedside table and found a packet of unopened condoms which were three years out of date. I breathed a sigh of relief—this did seem more like me, unless Miles brought his own, of course—but then if I had a bun in the oven, then finding them was immaterial as we didn’t use them. Or perhaps the clothes weren’t Miles’s at all? And what about my memories? If they had survived, then surely Landen’s share in junior-to-be had also survived. I sat down on the bed and pulled out my hair tie. I ran my fingers though my hair, flopped back, covered my face and groaned—long and loud.

There was a thump on the door at 8 a.m. A dangerous-looking man was standing on my doorstep. I’d never seen him before, but he knew me well enough.

‘Next!’ he bellowed. ‘Back rent Friday or I’ll throw all your stuff in the skip!’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘I can,’ he said, holding up a dog-eared lease agreement. ‘Pets are strictly against the terms of the lease. Pay up.’

‘There’s no pet in here,’ I explained innocently.

‘What’s that, then?’

Pickwick had made a quiet plock-plock noise and poked her head round the door to see what was going on. It was a badly timed move.

‘Oh, that . I’m looking after her for a friend.’

My landlord’s eyes suddenly lit up as he looked closer at Pickwick, who shrank back nervously. She was a rare Version 1.2 and my landlord seemed to know this.

‘Hand over the dodo,’ he mused avariciously, ‘and I’ll give you four months’ free rent.’

‘She’s not for trading,’ I said firmly. I could feel Pickwick quivering behind me.

‘Ah,’ said my landlord greedily. ‘Then you have two days to pay all your bills or you’re out on your sweet little SpecOps arse.

‘You say the sweetest things.’

He glared at me, handed me a bill and disappeared off down the corridor to harass someone else.

My bank statements made for depressing reading. I was not good with money. My cards had reached their limit and my overdraft was nearly used up. SpecOps wages were just about enough to keep you fed and with a roof over your head, but buying the Speedster had all but cleared me out and I hadn’t even seen the garage repair bills yet. There was a nervous plock-plock from the kitchen.

‘I’d sooner sell myself,’ I told Pickwick, who was standing expectantly with collar and lead in her beak.

I stashed the bank statements back into the shoe box and took her to the park. Perhaps it would be better to say that she took me—she was the one who knew the way. She played coyly with a few other dodos while I sat on a park bench. A crotchety old woman sat next to me and turned out to be Mrs Scroggins, who lived directly below. She told me not to make so much noise in future, and then, without drawing breath, gave me a few extremely useful tips about smuggling pets in and out of the building. I picked up a copy of The Owl on the way home and was glad to see that the discovery of Cardenio had not yet broken. I smuggled Pickwick back into my apartment and decided that now was the time to visit the closest thing to the Delphic Oracle I would ever know: Granny Next.