Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

‘The greater good, sir.’

‘No such thing,’ he barked back, handing me a SpecOps claim docket. ‘Officer Tillen at Stores gave me this. It’s your claim for a new Browning automatic.’

I stared dumbly at the docket. My original Browning, the one I had looked after from first issue, had been left in a motorway services somewhere in a patch of Bad Time.

‘I take this very seriously, Next. It says here you “lost” SpecOps property in unsanctioned SO-12 work. Flagrant disregard for Network property makes me very angry, Next. There is our budget to think of, you know.’

‘I thought it would come down to that,’ I murmured.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said: “I’ll retrieve it eventually, sir”.’

‘Maybe so. But lost property has to come under the monthly current expenditure and not the yearly resupply budget. We’ve been a little stretched recently. Your escapade with Jane Eyre was successful but not without cost. All things considered, I am sorry, but I will have to mark your performance as: “F”—”Definite room for improvement”.’

‘An “F”? Sir, I must protest!’

‘Talk’s over, Next. I’m truly sorry. This is quite out of my hands.’

‘Is this an SO-1 way of punishing me?’ I asked. ‘You know I’ve never had anything lower than an “A” in all my eight years with the service!’

‘Raising your voice does you no good at all, young lady,’ replied Hicks in an even tone, wagging his finger as a man might do to his spaniel. ‘This interview is over. I am truly, truly sorry, believe me.’

I got up, mumbled a reply, saluted and made for the door.

‘Wait!’ said Braxton. ‘There’s something else.’

I returned.

‘Yes?’

He handed over a packet of clothes in a polythene bundle.

‘The department is now sponsored by the Toast Marketing Board. You’ll find a hat, T-shirt and jacket in this package. Wear them when you can and be prepared for some corporate entertainment.’

‘Sir!’

‘Don’t complain. If you hadn’t eaten that toast on The Adrian Lush Show they would never have contacted us. Over a million quid in funding—not to be sniffed at with people like you soaking up the funds. Shut the door on the way out, will you?’

The morning’s fun wasn’t over. As I stepped out of Braxton’s office I almost bumped into Flanker.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Next. A word with you, if you don’t mind.’

It wasn’t a request—it was an order. I followed him into an empty interview room and he closed the door.

‘Seems to me you’re in such deep shit your eyes will turn brown, Next.’

‘My eyes are already brown, Flanker.’

‘Then you’re halfway there already. I’ll come straight to the point. You earned six hundred pounds last night to pay back rent.’

‘And?’

‘The service takes a dim view of moonlighting.’

‘It was Stoker at SO-17,’ I told him. ‘I was deputised—all above board.’

Flanker went quiet. His intelligence-gathering had obviously let him down badly.

‘Can I go?’

Flanker sighed.

‘Listen here, Thursday,’ he began in a more moderate tone of voice, ‘we need to know what your father is up to.’

‘What’s the problem? Industrial action standing in the way of next week’s cataclysmic event?’

‘Freelance navigators will sort it out, Next.’

He was bluffing.

‘You have no more idea about the nature of the armageddon than Dad, me, Lavoisier, or anyone else, do you?’

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Flanker, ‘but we at SpecOps are far better suited to having no clue at all than you and that chronupt father of yours.’

‘Chronupt?’ I said angrily, getting to my feet. ‘My father? That’s a joke! What is your golden boy Lavoisier doing eradicating my husband, then?’

There was silence for a moment.

‘That’s a very serious accusation,’ observed Flanker. ‘Have you any proof?’

‘Of course not; isn’t that the point of eradication?’

‘I have known Lavoisier for longer than I would care to forget,’ intoned Flanker gravely, ‘and I have never had anything but the highest regard for his integrity. Making wild accusations isn’t going to help your cause one iota.’

I sat down again and sighed. Dad had been right. Accusing Lavoisier of any wrongdoing was pointless.

‘Can I go?’

‘I have nothing to hold you on, Next. But I’ll find something. Every agent is on the make. It’s just a question of digging deep enough.’

‘How did it go?’ asked Bowden when I got back to the office.

‘I got an “F”,’ I muttered, sinking into my chair.

‘Flanker,’ said Bowden, trying on his Eat More Toast cap. ‘Has to be.’

‘How did the stand-up go?’

‘Very well, I think,’ answered Bowden, dropping the cap in the bin. ‘The audience seemed to find it very funny indeed. So much so that they want me to come back as a regular… What are you doing?’

I hurriedly hid under the table, slithering to the floor as quickly as I could. I would have to trust Bowden’s quick wits.

‘Hello!’ said Miles Hawke. ‘Has anyone seen Thursday?’

‘I think she’s at her monthly assessment meeting,’ replied Bowden, whose deadpan delivery was obviously as well suited to lying as it was to stand-up. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘No. Just ask her to get in contact, if she could.’

‘Why don’t you stay and wait?’ said Bowden. I kicked him under the table

‘No, I’d better run along,’ replied Miles. ‘Just tell her I called, won’t you?’

He walked off and I stood up. Bowden, very unusually for him, was giggling.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing—why don’t you want to see him?’

‘Because I might be carrying his baby.’

‘You’re going to have to speak up, I can hardly hear you.’

‘I might,’ I repeated in a hoarse whisper, ‘be carrying his baby !’

‘I thought you said it was Land—What’s the matter now?’

I had dropped to the ground again as Cordelia Flakk walked in. She was scanning the office for me in annoyance, hands on hips.

‘Have you seen Thursday about?’ she asked Bowden. ‘She’s got to meet these people of mine.’

‘I’m really not sure where she is,’ replied Bowden.

‘Really? Then who was it I saw ducking under this table?’

‘Hello, Cordelia,’ I said from beneath the table. ‘I dropped my pencil.’

‘Sure you did.’

I clambered out and sat down at my desk.

‘I expected more from you, Bowden,’ said Flakk crossly, then turned to me. ‘Now, Thursday. We promised these two people they could meet you. Do you really want to disappoint them? Your public, you know.’

‘They’re not my public, Cordelia, they’re yours . You made them for me.’

‘I’ve had to keep them at the Finis for another night,’ said Cordelia. ‘Costs are escalating. They’re downstairs right now. I knew you’d be in for your assessment. How did you do, by the way?’

‘Don’t ask.’

I looked at Bowden, who shrugged. Looking for some sort of rescue, I twisted on my seat, looking over to where Victor was running a possible unpublished sequel to 1984 entitled 1985 through the Prose Analyser. All the other members of the office were busy at their various tasks. It looked as if my PR career was just about to restart.

I sighed. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’

‘Better than hiding under the desk,’ said Bowden. ‘All that jumping around is probably not good for the baby.’

He clapped his hand over his mouth but it was too late.

‘Baby?’ echoed Cordelia. ‘What baby?’