Jasper Fforde - Something rotten

'What about me? And Joffy? Or even Anton? How were we born without Dad?'

She shrugged at the impossibility of the paradox.

'Perhaps it was, after all, youthful indiscretions that I have expunged from my mind.'

'And Emma? And Herr Bismarck? How do you explain them being here?'

'Well,' said my mother, thinking hard, 'I'm sure there's a rational explanation for it . . . somewhere.'

'Is this what this group teaches you?' I replied angrily. 'To deny the memories of your loved ones?'

I looked around at the gathering whose members had, it seemed, given up in the face of the hopeless paradox that they lived every minute of their lives. I opened my mouth to try to describe eloquently just how I knew Landen had once been married to me when I realised I was wasting my time. There was nothing, but nothing , to suggest it was anything other than in my mind. I sighed. To be truthful, it was in my mind. It hadn't happened. I just had memories of how it might have turned out. The tall thin man, the realist, was beginning to convince everyone they were not victims of a timeslip, but delusional.

'You want proof—'

I was interrupted by an excited knock at the front door. Whoever it was didn't waste any time; they just walked straight into the house and into the front room. It was a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who was holding the hand of a confused and acutely embarrassed-looking man.

'Hello, group!' she said happily. 'It's Ralph! I got him back!'

'Ah!' said Emma. 'This calls for a celebration!' Everyone ignored her.

'I'm sorry,' said my mother, 'have you got the right house? Or the right self-help group?'

'Yes, yes,' the woman asserted. 'It's Julie, Julie Aseizer. I've been coming to this group every week for the past three years!'

There was silence in the group. All you could hear was the quiet click of Mrs Beatty's knitting needles.

'Well, I haven't seen you,' announced the tall thin man. He looked around at the group. 'Does anyone recognise this person?'

The group members shook their heads blankly.

'I expect you think this is really funny, don't you?' said the thin man angrily. 'This is a self-help group for people with severe memory aberrations and I really don't think it is either amusing or constructive for pranksters to make fun of us! Now, please leave!'

The woman stood for a moment, biting her lip, but it was her husband who spoke.

'Come on, darling, I'm taking you home.'

'But wait—!' she said. 'Now he's back everything is as it was and I wouldn't have needed to come to your group, so I didn't — yet I remember —'

Her voice trailed off and her husband gave her a hug as she started to sob. He led her out, apologising profusely all the while.

As soon as they had gone the thin man sat down indignantly.

'A sorry state of affairs!' he grumbled.

'Everyone thinks it's funny to do that old joke,' added Mrs Beatty, 'that's the second time this month.'

'It gave me a powerful thirst,' added Emma. 'Anyone else?'

'Maybe,' I suggested, 'they should start a self-help group for themselves — they could call it Eradications Anonymous Anonymous .'

No one thought it was funny and I hid a smile. Perhaps there would be a chance for me and Landen after all.

I didn't contribute much to the group after that, and indeed the conversation soon threaded away from eradications and on to more mundane matters, such as the latest crop of TV shows that seemed to have flourished in my absence. Celebrity Name That Fruit ! hosted by Frankie Saveloy was a ratings topper these days, as was Toasters from Hell and You've Been Stapled !, a collection of England's funniest stationery incidents. Emma had given up all attempts at subtlety by now and was prising the lock off the drinks cabinet with a screwdriver when Friday wailed one of those ultrasonic cries that only parents can hear — makes you understand how sheep can know whose lamb is whose — and I mercifully excused myself. He was standing up in his cot rattling the bars, so I took him out and read to him until we were both fast asleep.

I was dreaming that a large chainsaw-wielding elephant was sitting on me when I awoke at two in the morning. I was still fully dressed with a snoring Friday fast asleep on my chest. I put him back in his cot and turned the bedside lamp to the wall to soften the light. My mother, for reasons known only to herself, had kept my bedroom pretty much as it was at the time I had left home. It was nostalgic but also deeply disturbing to see just what had interested me in my late teens. It seemed that it had been boys, music, Jane Austen and law enforcement, but not particularly in that order.

I undressed and slipped on a long T-shirt and stared at Friday's sleeping form, his lips making gentle sucky motions.

'Psss!' said a voice close at hand. I turned. There, in the semi-dark, was a very large hedgehog dressed in a pinafore and bonnet. She was keeping a close lookout at the door and after giving me a wan smile crept to the window and peeked out.

'Whoa!' she breathed in wonderment. 'Street lights are orange . Never would have thought that !'

'Mrs Tiggy-Winkle,' I said, 'I've only been gone two days!'

'Sorry to bother you,' she said, curtsying quickly and absently folding my shirt, which I had tossed over a chair-back, 'but there are one or two things going on that I thought you should know about — and you did say that if I had any questions to ask.'

'Okay — but not here; we'll wake Friday.'

So we crept downstairs to the kitchen. I pulled down the blinds before turning the lights on as a six-foot hedgehog in a shawl and bonnet might have caused a few eyebrows to be raised in the neighbourhood — no one wore bonnets in Swindon these days.

I offered Mrs Tiggy-Winkle a seat at the table. Although she, Emperor Zhark and Bradshaw had been put in charge of running Jurisfiction in my absence, none of them had the leadership skills necessary to do the job on their own. And while the Council of Genres refused to concede that my absence was anything but 'compassionate leave', a new Bellman was yet to be elected in my place.

'So what's up?' I asked.

'Oh, Miss Next!' she wailed, her spines bristling with vexation. 'Please come back!'

'I have things to deal with out here,' I explained, 'you all know that!'

She sighed. 'I know, but Emperor Zhark threw a tantrum when I suggested he spend a little less time conquering the universe and a little more time at Jurisfiction — the Red Queen won't do anything post-1867 and Vernham Deane is tied up with the latest Daphne Farquitt novel. Commander Bradshaw does his own thing, which leaves me in charge — and someone left a saucer of bread and milk on my desk this morning.'

'It was probably just a joke.'

'Well, I'm not laughing,' replied Mrs Tiggy-Winkle indignantly.

'By the way,' I said as a thought suddenly struck me, 'did you find out which book Yornck Kaine escaped from?'