Jasper Fforde - Something rotten

'I'm afraid not. The Cat is searching unpublished novels in the Well of Lost Plots at the moment, but it might take a little time. You know how chaotic things are down there.'

'Only too well.' I sighed, thinking about my old home in unpublished fiction with a mixture of fondness and relief. The Well is where books are actually constructed, where plotsnuths create the stones that authors think they write. You can buy plot devices at discount rates and verbs by the pint. An odd place, to be sure. 'Okay,' I said finally, 'you'd better tell me what's going on.'

'Well,' said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, counting the points out on her paw, 'this morning a rumour of potential change in the copyright laws swept through the BookWorld.'

'I don't know how these rumours get started,' I replied wearily. 'Was there any truth in it?'

'Not in the least.'

This was a contentious subject to the residents of the BookWorld. The jump to copyright-free Public Domain Status had always been a fearful prospect for a book character, and even with support groups and training courses to soften the blow, the 'Narrative Menopause' could take some getting used to. The problem was, copyright laws tend to vary around the world and sometimes characters are in the public domain in one market and not in another, which is confusing. Then there is the possibility that the law might change and characters who had adjusted themselves to Public Domain Status would find themselves in copyright again or vice versa. Unrest in the BookWorld about these matters is palpable; it only takes a small spark to set off a riot.

'So all was well?'

'Pretty much.'

'Good. Anything else?'

'Starbucks want to open another coffee shop in the Hardy Boys series.'

'Another one?' I asked with some surprise. 'There's already sixteen. How much coffee do they think they can drink? Tell them they can open another in Mrs Dalloway and two more in The Age of Reason . After that, no more. What else?'

'The Tailor of Gloucester needs three yards of cherry-coloured silk to finish the mayor's embroidered coat — but he's got a cold and can't go out.'

'Who are we? Interlink? Tell him to send his cat, Simpkin.'

'Okay.'

There was a pause.

'You didn't come all this way to tell me bad news about Kaine, copyright panics and cherry-coloured twist, now, did you?'

She looked at me and sighed.

'There's a bit of a problem with Hamlet.'

'I know. But he's doing a favour for my mother at the moment. I'll send him back in a few days.'

'Um,' replied the hedgehog nervously, 'it's a bit more complex than that. I think it might be a good idea if you kept him out here for a bit longer.'

'What's going on?' I asked suspiciously.

'It wasn't my fault!' she burst out, reaching for her pocket handkerchief. 'I thought the Internal Plot Adjustment request was to sort out the seasonal anomalies! All that death in the orchard, then winter, then flowers—'

'What happened?' I asked.

Mrs Tiggy-Winkle looked miserable.

'Well, you know there has been much grumbling within Hamlet ever since Rosencrantz and Guildenstern got their own play?'

'Yes?'

'Just after you left, Ophelia attempted a coup d'etat in Hamlet's absence. She imported a B-6 Hamlet from Lamb's Shakespeare and convinced him to re-enact some of the key scenes with a pro-Ophelia bias.'

'And?'

'Well,' said Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, 'they retitled it The Tragedy of the Fair Ophelia, driven mad by the callous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark .'

'She's always up to something, isn't she? I'll give her "Hey nonny, nonny". Tell her to get back into line or we'll slap a Class II fiction infraction on her so fast it'll make her head spin.'

'We tried that but Laertes returned from Paris and lent his voice to the revolution. Together they made some more changes and called it: The Tragedy of the Noble Laertes, who avenges his sister the fair Ophelia, driven mad by the callous and murderous Hamlet, Prince of Denmark .'

I ran my fingers through what remained of my hair.

'So . . . arrest them both?'

'Too late. Their father Polonius was in a "have a go" mood and joined in. He also made changes and together they renamed it The tragedy of the very witty and not remotely boring Polonius, father of the noble Laertes, who avenges his fair sister Ophelia, driven mad by the callous, murderous and outrageously disrespectful Hamlet, Prince of Denmark .'

'What was it like?'

'With Polonius? Very . . . wordy . We could replace them all,' carried on Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, 'but changing so many major players in one swoop might cause irreparable damage. The last thing we need right now is Hamlet coming back and sticking his oar in -you know how mad he gets when anybody even suggests a word change.'

'Right,' I said, 'here's the plan. This is all happening in the 1623 folio edition, yes?'

Mrs Tiggy-Winkle nodded her head.

'Okay. Move Hamlet — or whatever it is called at present — to a disused Storycode engine and fire up The Penguin Modern Hamlet so that is the one everyone in the Outland will read. It will give us some breathing space without anyone seeing the Polonised version. It won't be at its best, but it'll have to do. Horatio must still be on Hamlet's side, surely?'

'Most definitely.'

'Then deputise him to Jurisfiction and try to get him to convince the Polonius family to attend an arbitration session. Keep me posted. I'll try and keep Hamlet amused out here.'

She made a note.

'Is that all?' I asked.

'Unless you need some washing done.'

'I have a mother who will fight you for that. Now please, please, Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, you must leave me to sort out Kaine and get my husband back!'

'You're right,' she said after a short pause. 'We're going to handle this all on our own.'

'Good.'

'Right.'

'Well . . . goodnight, then.'

'Yes,' said the hedgehog, 'goodnight.'

She stood there on the kitchen linoleum, tapping her paws together and staring at the ceiling.

'Tiggy, what is it?'

'It's Mr Tiggy-Winkle!' she burst out at last. 'He came home late last night in a state of shock and smelling of car exhaust and I'm so worried!'

It was about three in the morning when I was finally left alone with my thoughts, a sleeping son and a pocket handkerchief drenched with hedgehog tears.

From humble beginnings in 1289 to a fiery end in the autumn of 1536, the towering beauty of the Great Cathedral of Swindon was once the equal of Canterbury or York, but no longer. Built over at least four times since then, the site of the cathedral is now occupied by a temple of another kind: Tesco's. Where monks once moved silently to prayer beneath vaulted cloisters, you can now buy Lola Vavoom workout videos, and where the exquisite stained-glass east window once brought forth tears from the coldest heart, there is now a refrigerated display boasting five different types of smoked sausage.