Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

He was still pissed off, make no mistake about that. I read on:

‘Still the same old Jack Schitt,’ I murmured.

‘I won’t let him lay a finger on you, Miss Next,’ assured Schitt-Hawse. ‘He’ll be arrested before you can say ketchup.’

So, gathering my thoughts, I offered my apologies to Miss Havisham for being an impetuous student, cleared my mind and throat and then read the words out loud, large as life and clear as a bell.

There was a distant rumble of thunder and the flutter of wings close to my face. An inky blackness fell and a wind sprang up and whistled about me, tugging at my clothes and flicking my hair into my eyes. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the sky about me, and I realised with a start that I was high above the ground, hemmed in by clouds filled with the ugly passion of a tempest in full spate. The rain struck my face like a heavy damp cloak and I saw in the feeble moonlight that I was being swept along close to a large storm cloud, illuminated from within by bolts of lightning. Just when I thought that perhaps I had made a very big mistake by attempting this feat without proper instruction, I noticed a small dot of yellow light through the swirling rain. I watched as the dot grew bigger until it wasn’t a dot but an oblong, and presently this oblong became a window, with frames, and glass, and curtains beyond. I flew closer and faster, and just when I thought I must collide with the rain-splashed glass I was inside , wet to the skin and quite breathless.

The mantel clock struck midnight in a slow and steady rhythm as I gathered my thoughts and looked around. The furniture was of highly polished dark oak, the drapes a gloomy shade of purple, and the wall coverings, where not obscured by bookshelves or morbid mezzotints, were a dismal brown colour. For light there was a solitary oil lamp that flickered and smoked from a poorly trimmed wick. The room was in a mess; a bust of Pallas lay shattered on the floor and the books that had once graced the shelves were now scattered about the room with their spines broken and pages torn. Worse still, some books had been used to rekindle the fire, a choked profusion of blackened paper had fallen from the grate and now covered the hearth. But to all of this I paid only the merest attention. Before me was the poor narrator of The Raven himself, a young man in his mid-twenties seated in a large armchair, bound and gagged. He looked at me imploringly and mumbled something behind the gag as he struggled with his bonds. As I removed the gag the young man burst forth in speech as though his life depended upon it.

‘ ‘Tis some visitor ,’ he spoke urgently and rapidly, ‘ tapping at my chamber door—only this and nothing more !’

And so saying, he disappeared from view into the room next door.

‘Damn you, Sebastian!’ said a chillingly familiar voice from the adjoining room. ‘I would pin you to your chair if this poetical coffin had seen so fit as to furnish me with hammer and nails!’

But the speaker stopped abruptly as he entered the room and saw me. Jack Schitt was in a wretched condition. His previously neat crew cut had been replaced by straggly hair and his thin features were now covered with a scruffy beard; his eyes were wide and haunted and hung with dark circles from lack of sleep. His sharp suit was rumpled and torn, his diamond tiepin lacking in lustre. His arrogant and confident manner had given way to a lonely desperation, and as his eyes met mine I saw tears spring up and his lips tremble. It was, to a committed Schitt-hater like myself, a joyous spectacle.

‘Thursday!’ he croaked in a strangled cry. ‘Take me back! Don’t let me stay one more second in this vile place! The endless clock staking midnight, the tap-tap-tapping, the raven—oh my good God, the raven !’

He fell to his knees and sobbed as the young man bounded happily back into the room and started to tidy up as he muttered:

‘ ‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door! ’

‘I’d be more than happy to leave you here, Mr Schitt, but I’ve cut a deal. C’mon, we’re going home.’

I grasped the Goliath agent by the lapel and started to read the description of the vault back at Goliath R&D. I felt a tug on my body and another rush of wind, the tapping increased and I just had time to hear the student say: ‘ Sir or madam truly, your forgiveness I implore …’ when we found ourselves back in the Goliath lab at Aldermaston. I was pleased with this, as I hadn’t thought it would be that easy, but all my feelings of self-satisfaction vanished when, instead of being arrested, Jack was hugged warmly by his half-brother.

‘Jack!’ said Schitt-Hawse happily. ‘Welcome back!’

‘Thank you, Brik—how’s Mum?’

‘The trouble with you, Miss Next,’ said Schitt-Hawse, ‘is that you are far too trusting. Did you really think for one moment that we were going to give up on such an important man as Jack?’

‘You promised!’ I said somewhat uselessly.

‘Goliath doesn’t keep promises,’ replied Schitt-Hawse. ‘The profit margin is too low.’

‘Lavoisier!’ I yelled. ‘You promised!’

Lavoisier walked from the room without looking back.

‘Thank you, Monsieur!’ shouted Schitt-Hawse after him. ‘The wedding picture was a touch of genius!’

I leaped forward to grab Schitt-Hawse but was pinned down by Chalk and Cheese. I struggled long, hard—and hopelessly. My shoulders sagged and I stared at the ground. How could I have been so stupid as to think they would keep to their part of the deal? Delusive hope, so often the partner of strong love, had blinded me. Landen had been right. I should have walked away.

‘I want to wring her ghost upon the floor,’ said Jack Schitt, staring in my direction, ‘to still this beating of my heart. Mr Cheese, your weapon.’

‘No, Jack,’ said Schitt-Hawse. ‘Miss Next and her unique attributes could open up a large and highly profitable market to exploit.’

Schitt rounded on his half-brother.

‘Do you have any idea of the fantastic terrors I’ve just been through? Tapping… I mean trapping me in The Raven is something Next is not going to live to regret. No, Brik, the book slut will surcease my sorrow!’

Schitt-Hawse held Jack by the shoulders and shook him.

‘Snap out of that Raven talk, Jack. You’re home now. Listen: the book slut is potentially worth billions .’

Schitt stopped and gathered his thoughts.

‘Of course,’ he murmured finally, ‘a vast untapped resource of consumers. How much useless rubbish do you think we can offload on those ignorant masses in nineteenth-century literature?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Schitt-Hawse, ‘and our unreprocessed waste— finally an effective disposal location. Untold riches await the Corporation. And listen—if it doesn’t work out, then you can kill her.’