Jasper Fforde - Something rotten

Stig looked across at Mrs Stiggms and the two of them held a conversation for a good five minutes — using only facial expressions and the odd grunt. After they had finished Stig said:

'It is agreed. You, Mr Cable, and ourself will break into the abandoned Goliath re-engineering labs. You to find your Shakespeares, we to find a way to seed our females.'

'I can't—'

'Even if we fail,' continued Stig, 'the Neanderthal Nation will field five players to help you win your Superhoop. There can be no payment and no glory. Is this the deal?'

I stared at his small brown eyes. Judging by the quality of the players I had seen outside and my knowledge of Neanderthals in general, we would be in with a chance — even with me locked up in a Welsh jail.

I shook his outstretched hand.

'This is the deal.'

'Then we must eat. Do you like rabbit?'

We both nodded.

'Good. This is a speciality of ours. In Neanderlese it is called Rabite'n'bitels.'

'Sounds excellent,' replied Bowden. 'What's it served with?'

'Potatoes and a ... tangy greeny-brown crunchy sauce.'

I can't be sure but I think Stig winked at me. I needn't have worried. The meal was excellent and Neanderthals are quite correct — beetles are severely underrated.

'So what do you know about the Elan?' asked Bowden as we drove back into town.

'Not much,' I replied, looking at the charts of Mr Shaxtper's teeth. Stig reckoned he had lived in the Elan for a lot longer than the others — perhaps until only a few years ago. If he had survived that long, why not some of the others? I wasn't going to raise any false hopes quite yet, but at least it seemed possible we could save Hamlet after all.

'Were you serious about not being able to think of a way in?'

'I'm afraid so. But we could always pretend to be Brummie water officials or something.'

'Why would water officials have ten truckloads of banned Danish books?' asked Bowden, not unreasonably.

'Something to read while doing water officially things?'

'If we don't get these books to safety they'll be burned, Thursday — we've got to find a way into the republic.'

'I'll think of something.'

I spent the rest of the afternoon fielding calls from numerous sports reporters, eager to get a story and find out who would be playing in what position on the field. I called Aubrey and told him that he would have five new players — but I didn't tell him they'd be Neanderthals. I couldn't risk the press finding out.

By the time I returned to Mum's house my wedding ring was firmly back on my finger again. I pushed Friday around to Landen's house and, noticing that everything seemed to be back to normal, knocked twice. There was an excited scrabble from within and Landen opened the door.

'There you are!' he said happily. 'When you hung up on me I got kinda worried.'

'I didn't hang up, Land.'

'I was eradicated again?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Will I be again''

'I'm hoping not. Can I come in?'

I put Friday on the floor; he immediately started to try and climb the stairs.

'Bedtime already, is it, young man?' asked Landen, following him as he clambered all the way up. I noticed that in the spare room there were two as yet unpacked stair gates, which put my mind at rest. He had bought a cot, too, and several toys.

'I bought some clothes.'

He opened a drawer. It was stuffed with all kinds of clothes for the little chap, and although some looked a bit small, I didn't say anything. We took him downstairs and Landen made some supper.

'So you knew I was coming back?' I asked as he cut up some broccoli.

'Oh, yes,' he replied, 'as soon as you got all that eradication nonsense sorted out. Make us a cup of tea, would you?'

I walked over to the sink and filled the kettle.

'Any closer with a plan for dealing with Kaine?' asked Landen.

'No,' I admitted, 'I'm really banking on Zvlkx's seventh Revealment coming true.'

'What I don't understand,' said Landen, chopping some carrots, 'is why everyone except Formby seems to agree with everything Kaine says. Bloody sheep, the lot of them.'

'I must say I'm surprised by the lack of opposition to Kaine's plans,' 1 agreed, staring absently out of the kitchen window. I frowned as the germ of an idea started to ferment in my mind. 'Land?'

'Yuh?'

'When was the last time Formby went anywhere near Kaine?'

'Never. He avoids him like the plague. Kaine wants to meet him face to face but the President won't have anything to do with him.'

'That's it!' I exclaimed, suddenly having a flash of inspiration.

'What's it?'

'Well—'

I stopped because something at the bottom of the garden had caught my eye.

'Do you have nosy neighbours, Land?'

'Not really.'

'It's probably my stalker, then.'

'You have a stalker?'

I pointed.

'Sure. Just there, in the laurels, beckoning to me.'

'Do you want me to do the strong male thing and chase him off with a stick?'

'No. I've got a better idea.'

'Hello, Millon. How's the stalking going? I brought you a cup of tea and a bun.'

'Pretty well,' he said, marking down in his notebook the time I had stopped to talk to him and budging aside to make room for me in the laurel bush. 'How are things with you?'

'They're mostly good. What were you waving at me for?'

'Ah!' he said. 'We were going to run a feature about thirteenth-century seers in Conspiracy Theorist magazine and I wanted to ask you a few questions.'

'Go ahead.'

'Do you think it's odd that no fewer than twenty-eight Dark Age saints have chosen this year for their second coming?'

'I'd not really given it that much thought.'

'O-kay. Do you not also find it strange that of these twenty-eight supposed seers only two of them — St Zvlkx and Sister Bettina of Stroud — have actually made any prophecies that have come remotely true?'

'What are you saying?'

'That St Zvlkx might not be a thirteenth-century saint at all, but some sort of time-travelling criminal. He takes an illicit journey to the Dark Ages, writes up what he can remember of history and then at the appropriate time he is catapulted forward to see his last "Revealment" come true.'

'Why?' I asked. 'If the ChronoGuard get wind of what he's up to he's never been born — literally. Why risk non-existence for at most a few years' fame as a washed-up visitor from the thirteenth century with a host of unpleasant skin complaints?'

Millon shrugged.

'I don't know. 1 thought you might be able to help me .'

He lapsed into silence.

'Tell me, Millon — is there any connection between Kaine and the ovinator?'

'Of course! You should read Conspiracy Theorist magazine more often. Although most of our links between secret technology and those in power are about as tenuous as mist, this one really is concrete: his personal assistant, Stricknene, used to work with Schitt-Hawse at the Goliath tech division. If Goliath have an ovinator, then Kaine might very well have one too. Do you know what it does, then?'