Jasper Fforde - Something rotten

'Miss Next, this is Adam Gnusense. Adam, Miss Next.'

He waved weakly at me, looked at the bloodied handkerchief and sighed mournfully. I felt rather remorseful all of a sudden.

'Sorry to have hit you, Mr Gnusense,' I said apologetically, 'I didn't know what either of you was up to.'

'Occupational hazard, Miss Next.'

'Hey, Adam,' said Millon, suddenly sounding enthusiastic, 'do you have your own stalker yet?'

'Somewhere,' said Gnusense, looking around, 'a Grade 34 loser. The sad bastard was rummaging through my bins last night. Passe or what!'

'Kids — tsk,' said Millon. 'It might have been de rigueur in the sixties but the modern stalker is much more subtle. Long vigils, copious notes, timed entry and exits, telephoto lenses.'

'We live in sad times,' agreed Adam, shaking his head sadly. 'Must be off. I said I'd keep a close eye on Adrian Lush for a friend.'

He stood up and shambled slowly away down the alley, stumbling on discarded beer cans.

'Not a great talker is old Adam,' said Millon in a whisper, 'but sticks to his target like a limpet. You wouldn't catch him rummaging through dustbins — unless he was giving a masterclass for a few of the young pups, of course. Tell me, Miss Next, where have you been for the past two and a half years? It's been a bit dull here — after the first eighteen months of you not showing up, I'd reduced my stalking to only three nights a week.'

'You'd never believe me.'

'You'd be surprised what I can believe. Aside from stalking I've just finished my first book: A Short History of the Special Operations Network . I'm also editor of Conspiracy Theorist magazine. In between pieces on the very tangible link between Goliath and Yorrick Kaine and the existence of a mysterious beast known only as "Guinzilla", we've run several articles devoted entirely to you and that Jane Eyre thing. We'd love to do a piece on your uncle Mycroft's work, too. Even though we know almost nothing, the conspiracy network is alive with healthy half-truths, lies and supposition. Did he really build an LCD cloaking device for cars?'

'Sort of.'

'And translating carbon paper?'

'He called it rossetionery .'

'And what about the ovinator? Conspiracy Theorist devotes several pages of unsubstantiated rumours to this one invention alone.'

'I don't know. Some sort of machine for cooking eggs, perhaps? Is there anything you don't know about my family?'

'Not a lot. I'm thinking of writing a biography of you. How about: Thursday Next — A Biography ?'

'The title? Way too imaginative.'

'So I have your permission?'

'No, but if you can put a dossier together on Yorrick Kaine I'll tell you all about Aornis Hades.'

'Acheron's little sister? It's a deal! Are you sure I can't write your biography? I've already made a start.'

'Positive — if you find anything, knock on my door.'

'I can't. There's a blanket restraining order on all members of the Amalgamated Union of Stalkers. We're not allowed within a hundred yards of your place of residence.'

I sighed.

'All right, just wave when I come out.'

De Floss readily agreed to that plan and I left him rearranging his notebook, binoculars and camera and starting to make copious notes on his first encounter with me. I couldn't get rid of the poor deluded fool but a stalker just might — might — be an ally.

'How did Kaine rise so quickly to power?' I asked incredulously as Joffy and I queued patiently outside Swindon's Toad News Network studios that evening. 'When I was here last Kaine and the Whig Party were all but washed up after the Cardenio debacle.'

Joffy looked grim and nodded towards a large crowd of uniformed Kaine followers who were waiting in silence for their glorious leader.

'Things haven't been good back here, Thurs. Kaine regained his seat after Samuel Pring was assassinated. The Whigs formed an alliance with the Liberals and elected Kaine as their leader. He has some sort of magnetism, and the numbers that attend his rallies increase all the time. His 'British Unification' stance has had much support — mostly among stupid people who can't be bothered to think for themselves.'

'War with Wales?'

'He hasn't said as such but a leopard doesn't change its spots. He won by a landslide after the previous government collapsed over the "cash for llamas" scandal. As soon as he was in power he proclaimed himself Chancellor. His Unreform Act last year restricted the vote to people with property.'

'How did he get Parliament to agree to that ?' I muttered, aghast at the thought of it.

'We're not sure,' said Joffy sadly. 'Sometimes Parliament does the funniest things. But he's not happy just being Chancellor. He's arguing that committees and accountants only slow things down and if people really want trains to run on time and shopping trolleys to run straight, it can only be done by one man wielding unquestionable executive power — a dictator.'

'So what's stopping him?'

'The President,' replied Joffy quietly. 'Formby has told Kaine that if he pushes for a dictatorial election he will stand against him, and Yorrick knows full well that Formby would win — he's as popular now as he ever was.'

I thought for a moment.

'How old is President Formby?'

'That's the problem. He was eighty-four last May.'

We fell silent for a moment, and shuffled with the queue up to the stage door, had our identities checked by two ugly men from SO-6 and were then ushered in. We took our seats at the back and waited patiently for the show to begin. It seemed hard to believe that Kaine had managed to inveigle his way to the top of English politics but, I reflected, anything can happen to a fictional character — a trait that Yorrick obviously exploited to the full.

'See that nasty-looking man on the edge of the stage?' asked Joffy.

'Yes,' I replied, following the line of Joffy's finger to a stocky man with short hair and no visible neck.

'Colonel Fawsten Gayle, Kaine's head of security. Not a man to trifle with. It's rumoured he was expelled from school for nailing his head to a park bench for a bet.'

Standing next to Gayle was a cadaverous man with pinched features and small round spectacles. He was holding a battered red briefcase and was dressed in a rumpled sports jacket and corduroy trousers.

'Who's that?'

'Ernst Stricknene. Kaine's personal adviser.'

I stared at them both for a while and noticed that, despite being barely two feet from one another, they didn't exchange a single word or look. Things in the Kaine camp were far from settled. If I could get close I'd just grab Yorrick and jump him straight to one of Jurisfiction's many prison books and that would be that. It looked as though I had got back home just in time.