Джаспер Ффорде - One of Our Thursdays Is Missing

“She’s going to be trouble, that one,” said Pickwick, who was doing the crossword while perched on the dresser.

“All she has to be is a good Thursday,” I murmured. “Everything else is immaterial. Mrs. Malaprop?”

“Yes, madam?”

“Did you put anything in my pocket this morning? For a joke, perhaps?”

“ Joke , madam?” she inquired in a shocked tone. “Malaprops always keep well clear of potentially hummus situations.”

“I didn’t think so. I’ll be in my study. Will you have Sprockett bring in some tea?”

“Very good, madam.”

“Pickwick? I need the paper.”

“You’ll have to wait,” she said without looking up. “I’m doing the crossword.”

I didn’t have time for this, so I simply took the paper, ripped off the crossword section and handed it back to her. I ignored her expression of outrage and walked into my study and shut the door.

I moved quietly to the French windows and stepped out into the garden to release the Lost Positives that the Lady of Shalott had given me. She had a soft spot for the orphaned prefixless words and thought they had more chance to thrive in Fiction than in Poetry. I let the defatigable scamps out of their box. They were kempt and sheveled but their behavior was peccable if not mildly gruntled. They started acting petuously and ran around in circles in a very toward manner.

I then returned to my study and spent twenty minutes staring at Thursday’s shield. The only way it could have gotten into my pocket was via the red-haired gentleman sitting next to me on the tram. And if that was the case, he had been in contact with Thursday quite recently—or at least sometime in the past week. It didn’t prove she was missing in the BookWorld any more than it proved she was missing in the RealWorld. I had only a telephone note, a husband’s tears and the word of a murderer.

“Your tea and shortbread, ma’am,” said Sprockett, placing the tray upon my desk. “A very comfortable house you have. I must confess that in a weak moment, and quite against your advice, I lent that odd-looking bird twenty pounds for her kidney operation.”

“I warned you about Pickwick,” I said with a sigh. “She doesn’t need a kidney operation, and her mother isn’t in ‘dire straits,’ no matter what she says.”

“Ah,” replied Sprockett. “Do you think I might be able to get my money back?”

“Not without a lot of squawking. Is Mrs. Malaprop causing you any trouble, by the way?”

“No, ma’am. We agreed to arm-wrestle for seniority in the house, and even though she attempted to cheat, I believe that we are all square now.”

“I was given this by someone on a tram,” I said, passing the real Thursday’s shield across to Sprockett.

His eyebrow pointed to “Puzzled,” then “Thinking,” then “Worried.”

“That would explain the ease by which I escaped the stoning in Conspiracy.”

“And later, getting out of Poetry.”

“I don’t recall that.”

“You were dreaming about gramophones. Can you call the Jurisfiction front desk and ask for Thursday Next? Tell them it’s me and I need to speak to her.”

Sprockett stood in the corner to make the calls. A request like this would be better coming from my butler.

“They tell me that she is ‘on assignment’ at present,” replied Sprockett after talking quietly to himself for a few seconds.

“Tell them it’s the written Thursday and I’ll call again.”

I wondered quite how she could be on assignment without her shield and idly turned over the newspaper. I stopped. The banner headline read, FAMED JURISFICTION AGENT TO LEAD PEACE TALKS. Thursday was due to table the talks on Friday, less than a week away. All of a sudden, her “absent” status took on a more menacing angle. If she was missing now, things could get very bad indeed.

For the past three years, Racy Novel and its leader, Speedy Muffler, had been causing trouble far in excess of his size, readership or importance. Sandwiched precariously between Women’s Fiction and Outdated Religious Dogma, with Erotica to the far north and Comedy to the south, the large yet proudly anarchic genre had been troublesome ever since it was declared a member of the Axis of Unreadable along with Misery Memoirs and Celebrity Bio. Muffler, stung by the comparison to voyeuristic drivel or the meaningless nonadventures of celebrities, decided to expand his relevance within Fiction by attempting to push out his borders. The CofG responded to his aggression by transferring Lady Chatterley’s Lover out of Racy Novel and into Human Drama, then moving The History of Tom Jones to Erotica. Sanctions soon followed that prevented anyone from supplying Racy Novel with good dialogue, plot or characterization. This did nothing to appease Speedy Muffler, and he claimed that the sanctions were preventing him from developing as a genre—quite against BookWorld law and the Character’s Charter. The trouble was, Muffler and Racy Novel couldn’t be ignored, since they were amongst the major exporters of metaphor. When Muffler claimed to possess a dirty bomb capable of hurling scenes of a gratuitously sexual nature far into Women’s Fiction, the BookWorld finally took notice and the peace talks were set. Thursday Next would be the chief negotiator, and she had good form. When Scandinavian Detectives threatened to cede from Crime, it was she who brought them back.

“You seem perturbed,” remarked Sprockett. “Is anything the matter?”

“I have reason to believe that the real Thursday Next might be missing,” I replied guardedly. “And that’s not good for all sorts of reasons.”

“Has she gone missing before?” asked Sprockett.

“Many times.”

“Then it’s probably one of those . . . again.”

I hoped he was right, but even if he wasn’t, I wasn’t quite sure what could be done about it. I was an underread A-8 character with no power and less influence. Besides, Jurisfiction was doubtless onto it. Commander Bradshaw, the head of Jurisfiction, was one of Thursday’s closest friends.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Malaprop came in.

“Miss Next? There awesome gentlemen to see you.”

“Who are they?”

“They didn’t give their gnomes.”

The visitors didn’t wait either, and strode in. They weren’t the sort of people I wanted to see, but their presence might well reinforce my theories about Thursday. They were the Men in Plaid.

Several things seemed to happen at once. Sprockett’s eyebrow quivered at Mrs. Malaprop, who got his meaning and knocked over an ornamental vase, which fell to the floor with a crash. The Men in Plaid turned to see what was going on, and at that very moment Sprockett grabbed Thursday’s shield from the desk and threw it hard into the ceiling, where it stuck in the plasterboard. By the time the Men in Plaid looked back towards us, Sprockett was tidying my papers on the desk.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said in a friendly tone. “What can I do for you?”

Like trousers, pear pips, twins and bookends, MiP always came in pairs. They were without emotion and designed to ensure that no personal ambiguity would muddy their operating parameters. MiP were designed to do what they were told to do, and nothing else.

“So,” said the Man in Plaid, “you are Thursday Next A8-V-67987-FP?”

“Yes.”

“Date of composure?”

“Third June, 2006. What is this about?”

“Routine, Miss Next,” said the second MiP. “We are looking for some property stolen from a leading Jurisfiction agent, and we thought you might be able to help us. I won’t mince my words. We think you have it.”

I resisted the temptation to look up. The shield was in plain sight, embedded in the ceiling. “Do you want me to try to guess what you’re after, or are you going to tell me?”