Jasper Fforde - Something rotten

'Twenty-two thousand pounds?' I said to the cashier. 'Are you sure?'

The cashier looked at me with unblinking eyes, then at Hamlet, who was standing over me a bit indelicately.

'Quite sure. Twenty-two thousand, three hundred and eight pounds and four shillings three pence ha'penny — overdrawn ,' she added, in case I had missed it. 'Your landlord sued you for dodo-related tenancy violations and won five thousand pounds. Since you weren't here we upped your credit limit when he demanded payment. Then we raised the limit again to pay for the additional interest.'

'How very thoughtful of you.'

'Thank you. Goliath First National Friendly always aim to please.'

'Are you sure you wouldn't rather go with the "wealthy aunt" scenario?' asked Hamlet, being no help at all.

'No. Shhh.'

'We haven't had a single deposit from you for nearly two and a half years,' continued the bank clerk.

'I've been away.'

'Prison?'

'No. So the rest of my overdraft is—?'

'Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you haven't got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn't reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you hadn't received, further letters asking for a response because we have an odd sense of humour — you know how it all adds up! Can we expect a cheque in the near future?'

'Not really. Um — any chance of raising my credit limit?'

The cashier arched an eyebrow.

'I can get you an appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we can send expensive letters demanding money?'

I gave them Muni's address and made an appointment to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several closing-down sales — one of which I had witnessed with Miss Havisham.

Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have avoided that whole stupid sock episode in Lake Wobegon Days .

'Okay, I give up,' said Hamlet quite suddenly. 'How does it all turn out?'

'How does what all turn out?'

He spread his arms out wide.

'All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the small dodo, that Superhoop thing and the big company — what's it called again?'

'Goliath?'

'Right. How does it all turn out?'

'I haven't the slightest idea. Out here our lives are pretty much an unknown quantity.'

Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept.

'How do you live here not knowing what the future might bring?'

'That's part of the fun. The pleasure of anticipation.'

'There is no pleasure in anticipation,' said Hamlet glumly. 'Except perhaps,' he added, 'in killing that old fool Polonius.'

'My point exactly,' I replied. 'Where you come from events are preordained and everything that happens to you has some sort of relevance farther on in the story.'

'It's clear you haven't read Hamlet for a— LOOK OUT !'

Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small steamroller — of the size that works on sidewalks and paths — bore rapidly down on us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.

'Are you okay?' asked Hamlet, helping me to my feet.

'I'm fine — thanks to you.'

'Goodness!' said a workman, running up to us and turning a valve to shut off the roller. 'Are you all right?'

'Not hurt in the least. What happened?'

'I don't know,' replied the workman, scratching his head. 'Are you sure you're okay?'

'Really, I'm fine.'

We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner of the shop didn't look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about what else he could charge to insurance.

'You see?' I said to Hamlet as we walked away.

'What?'

'This is exactly what I mean. A lot happens in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from now; as it is it means nothing — after all, not every incident in life has a meaning.'

'Tell that to the scholars who study me ,' Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before adding: 'If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Over-long, detailed to the point of distraction — and ultimately without a major resolution.'

'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'that's exactly what we like about it.'

We reached the SpecOps building. It was of a sensible Germanic design, built during the occupation, and it was here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with Acheron Hades' plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of Jane Eyre . Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.

'Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?'

'Please.'

We walked into the Cafe Goliathe opposite. The same one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour before he was eradicated.

'Hey!' said the man behind the counter, who seemed somehow familiar. 'We don't serve that kind in here!'

'What kind?'

'The Danish kind.'

Goliath were obviously working with Kaine on this particular nonsense.

'He's not Danish. He's my cousin Eddie from Wolverhampton.'

'Really? Then why is he dressed like Hamlet?'

I thought quickly.

'Because . . . he's insane. Isn't that right, Cousin Eddie?'

'Yes,' said Hamlet, to whom feigning madness was not much of a problem. 'When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.'

'See?'

'Well, that's all right, then.'

I started as I realised why he seemed familiar. It was Mr Cheese, one of the Goliath corporate bullies that Brik Schitt-Hawse had employed. He and his partner Mr Chalk had made my life difficult before I left. He didn't have his goatee any more but it was definitely him. Undercover? I doubted it — his name was on his Cafe Goliathe badge with, I noted, two gold stars — one for washing up and the other for latte frothing. But he didn't show any sign of recognising me.

'What will you have, Ham— I mean, Cousin Eddie?'

'What is there?'

'Espresso, Mocha, Latte, White Mocha, Hot Chocolate, Decaff, Recaff, Nocaff, Somecaff, Extracaff, Goliachmo™ . . . what's the matter?'

Hamlet had started to tremble, a look of pain and hopelessness on his face as he stared wild-eyed at the huge choice laid out in front of him.

'To espresso or to latte, that is the question,' he muttered, his free will evaporating rapidly. I had asked Hamlet for something he couldn't easily supply: a decision. 'Whether ’tis tastier on the palette to choose white mocha over plain,' he continued in a rapid garble, 'or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless choice, end one's heartache—'

'Cousin Eddie!' I said sharply. 'Cut it out!'

'To froth, to sprinkle, perchance to drink, and in that—'

'He'll have a mocha with extra cream, please.'

Hamlet stopped abruptly once the burden of decision was taken from him.

'Sorry,' he said, rubbing his temples, 'I don't know what came over me. All of a sudden I had this overwhelming desire to talk for a very long time without actually doing anything. Is that normal?'

'Not for me. I'll have a latte, Mr Cheese ,' I said, watching his reaction carefully.

He still didn't seem to recognise me. He rang up the cost and then started making the coffees.

'Do you remember me?'