Jasper Fforde - First Among Sequels

“Of course not, old girl,” replied Bradshaw genially, exchanging a glance with Thursday5.

“ that explains why I can’t get back in,” murmured Thursday5 in dismay. “Is this permanent? I know my book’s unreadable-but it’s home.”

“Listen,” I said, rubbing my scalp, “that’s your problem. Since when were you part of the decision-making process?”

Bradshaw’s mobilefootnoterphone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said, and wandered off to answer it.

“It’s been a long day,” murmured Thursday5, staring out the window at the view. “You must be tired. Do you want me to fetch you a chai?”

“No, I don’t drink any of that rubbish. What were you saying about the hot bath and the martini again?”

She didn’t have time to answer.

“That was Text Grand Central,” said Bradshaw as he returned. “We’ve been getting some Major Narrative Flexations inside The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco. It seems the entire first chapter has broken away from the rest of the book.”

“What?”

“As I said. It’s a good thing no one reads it these days. We’ve tracked Thursday to page two hundred and eight.”

I took a deep breath and looked at Bradshaw and Thursday5 in turn. “This is unfinished business,” I said quietly. “I’m going to put an end to her once and for all.”

They didn’t try to argue with me. I should have killed her there and then in the corridor. What was I thinking of?

“The book’s been two-way-sieved,” said Bradshaw. “Call me when you’re about to jump, and I’ll get Text Grand Central to open you a portal. As soon as you’re in, we’ll close it down and you’ll both be trapped. Do you have your mobilefootnoterphone?”

I nodded.

“Then call me when you’re done. Use Mrs. Bradshaw’s middle name so I know it’s you and really you. Good luck.”

I thanked them, and they walked off down the corridor before evaporating from view. I tried to calm my nerves and told myself that facing Thursday couldn’t be that bad, but the consequences if I failed were high indeed. I took another deep breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my trousers, made the call to Bradshaw and jumped all the way to page 208 of The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco.

I came to earth in Swindon. Or at least, the Fiasco touchy-feely version of Swindon, which was sunny and blue-skied and every garden an annoying splash of bright primary colors that gave me a headache. The houses were perfect, the cars clean, and everything was insanely neat and orderly. I pulled out my automatic, removed the clip to check it, replaced it and released the safety. There would be no escape for her this time. I knew she was unarmed, but somehow that didn’t fill me with such confidence; after all, she was almost infinitely resourceful. The thing was, so was I . After I’d killed her, I would just jump out and everything would be right-forever. I could reinstate the interactive book project before the readers had finished the first three chapters-then go to the Outland and savor the joys of Landen once more. Following that and after paying a small amount of lip ser vice to diplomacy, I could also deploy two legions of Mrs. Danvers into Racy Novel. Who knows? I might even lead the attack myself. That, I had discovered, was the best thing about being Thursday Next-you could do anything you damn well pleased and no one would, could or dared oppose you. I had only two problems to deal with right now: disposing of the real Thursday Next and trying to figure out Mrs. Bradshaw’s middle name, the code word to get out. I hadn’t a clue-I’d never even met her.

I pulled the glove off my hand and looked at where the mottled flesh still showed signs of the eraserhead. I rubbed the itchy skin, then moved to the side of the street and walked toward where this version of Thursday’s house was located. It was the same as the one that was burned down in the first chapter of my book, so I knew the way. But the strange thing was, the street was completely deserted. Nothing moved. Not a person, not a cat, squirrel- nothing . I stopped at a car that was abandoned in the street and looked in the open passenger door. The key was still in the ignition. Whoever had once populated this book had left-and in a hurry.

I carried on walking slowly down the road. That pompous fool Bradshaw had mentioned something about a chapter breaking away from the main book-perhaps that was where all the background characters were. But it didn’t matter. Thursday was here now, and she was the one I was after. I reached the garden gate of Landen5’s house and padded cautiously up the path, past the perfectly planted flowers and windows so clean and sparkly they almost weren’t there. Holding my gun outstretched, I stepped quietly inside the house.

Thursday5’s idea of home furnishing was different from mine and the real Thursday’s. For a start, the floor covering was seagrass, and the curtains were an odiously old-fashioned tie-dye. I also noticed to my disgust that there were Tibetan mandalas in frames upon the wall and dream catchers hanging from the ceiling. I stepped closer to the pictures on the mantelpiece and found one of Thursday5 and Landen5 at Glastonbury. They had their faces painted as flowers and were grinning stupidly and hugging each other, with Pickwick5 sitting between them. It was quite sickeningly twee, to be honest.

“I would have done the same.”

I turned. Thursday was leaning on the doorway that led through to the kitchen. It was an easy shot, but I didn’t take it. I wanted to relish the moment.

“What would you have done the same?” I asked.

“I would have spared you, too. I’ll admit it, your impersonation of me was about the most plausible I’ll ever see. I’m not sure there’s anyone out there who would have spotted it. But I didn’t think you could keep it up. The real you would soon bubble to the surface. Because, like it or not, you’re not enough of me to carry it off. To be me you need the seventeen years of Jurisfiction experience-the sort of experience that means I can take on people like you and come out victorious.”

I laughed at her presumption. “I think you overestimate your own abilities, Outlander. I’m the one holding the gun. Perhaps you’re a little bit right, but I can and will be you, given time. Everything you have, everything you are. Your job, your family, your husband . I can go back to the Outland and take over from where you left off-and probably have a lot more fun doing it, too.”

I pointed my gun at her and began to squeeze the trigger, then stopped. She didn’t seem particularly troubled, and that worried me.

“Can you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

She cupped a hand to her ear. “That.”

And now that she mentioned it, I could hear something. A soft thrumming noise that seemed to reverberate through the ground.

“What is it?” I asked, and was shocked to discover that my voice came out cracked and…afraid.

“Take a look for yourself,” she said, pointing outside.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and backed out the door, still keeping my gun firmly trained on her. I ran down to the garden gate and looked up the street. The houses at the end of the road seemed to have lost definition and were being eaten away by a billowing cloud of sand.