Jasper Fforde - Something rotten

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Something Rotten is the fourth installment of the Thursday Next series and she returns to her parallel universe of England in 1988 along with her son, Friday, and Hamlet, prince of Denmark. Both Friday and Hamlet need to be watched and cared for, so Thursday tries again to undo her husband's eradication by the Goliath Corp., which has now changed from a huge corporation to a huge religion. The fictional outlaw Yorrick Kaine decides he wants to be elected emperor and embarks on an anti-Danish tirade to win support. Meanwhile, moody Hamlet watches plays and movies about himself and the Swindon team has a shot at winning the Superhoop, the world championship of croquet. It's more fictional fancy and wild imagination from Jasper Fforde and Something Rotten has received positive reviews. The Denver Post says, "The latest installment in the Thursday Next series is impressive, and arguably Fforde's best work to date. It is a compliment to the author's skill and creativity that his humor remains fresh and his central character gains depth."

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Mrs Next patted my arm.

'With Joffy and Miles.'

'Ah,' I said, 'good.'

Thursday came out of surgery three hours later. The doctor, who had a haggard look but stared me in the eye, which I liked, told me that things weren't terrific but she was stable and a fighter and I wasn't to give up hope. I went to have a look at her with Mrs Next. There was a large bandage around her head and the monitors did that beep thing they do in movies. Mrs Next sniffed and said: 'I've lost one son already. I don't want to lose another. Well, a daughter, I mean, but you know what I mean — a child.'

I said: 'I know what you mean.'

I didn't, having never lost a son, but it seemed the right thing to say.

We sat with her for two hours while the light failed outside and the fluorescents flickered on. When we had been there another two hours Mrs Next said:

'I'm going to go now but I'll be back in the morning. You should try and get some sleep.'

I said: 'I know. I'm just going to stay here for another five minutes.'

I stayed there for another hour. A kindly nurse brought me a cup of tea and I ate some Battenberg. I got home at eleven. Joffy was waiting for me. He told me that he had put Friday to bed and asked me how his sister was.

I said: 'It's not looking very good, Joff.'

He patted me on the shoulder, gave me a hug and told me that he and everyone at the GSD had joined the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx and the Sisters of Eternal Punctuality to pray for her, which was good of him, and them.

I sat on the sofa for a long time until there was a gentle knock at the kitchen door. I opened it to find a small group of people. A man who introduced himself as Thursday's 'Cousin Eddie' but whispered that actually his name was Hamlet said to me:

'Is this a bad time? We heard about Thursday and wanted to tell you how sorry we were.'

I tried to be cheery. I really wanted them to sod off but instead I said: 'Thank you. I don't mind at all. Friends of Thursday are friends of mine. Tea and Battenberg?'

'If it's not too much trouble.'

He had three others with him. The first was a short man who looked exactly like a Victorian big-game hunter. He wore a pith helmet and safari suit and had a large bushy white moustache. He gave me his hand to shake and said:

'Commander Bradshaw, don'tcha know. Damn fine lady, your wife. Appreciate a girl who knows how to carry herself in a scrap. Did she tell you about the time she and I hunted Morlock in Trollope?'

'No.'

'Shame. I'll tell you all about it one day. This is the memsahib, Mrs Bradshaw.'

Melanie was large and hairy and looked like a gorilla. In fact, she was a gorilla, but had impeccable manners and curtsied as I shook her large coal-black hand which had the thumb in an odd place so was difficult to shake properly. Her deep-set eyes were wet with tears and she said: 'Oh, Landen! Can I call you Landen? Thursday used to talk about you all the time when you were eradicated. We all loved her a great deal — I mean, we still do. How is she? How is Friday? You must feel awful!'

I said: 'She's not really very well,' which was the truth.

The fourth member of the party was a tall man dressed in black robes. He had a very large bald head and high arched eyebrows. He put out a finely manicured hand and said: 'My name's Zhark but you can call me Horace. I used to work with Thursday. You have my condolences. If it will help I would happily slaughter a few thousand Thraals as a tribute to the gods.'

I didn't know what a Thraal was but told him that it really wasn't necessary. He said: 'It's really no trouble. I've just conquered their planet and I'm really not sure what I should do with them.'

I told him that this really, really wasn't necessary and added that I didn't think Thursday would have liked it, then cursed myself for using the past tense. I put on the kettle and said:

'Battenberg?'

Hamlet and Zhark answered together. They were obviously quite keen on my mother-in-law's speciality. I smiled for the first time in eight hours and twenty-three minutes and said: 'There's plenty for everyone. Mrs Next keeps on sending it over and the dodos won't touch it. You can take away a cake each.'

I made the tea, Mrs Bradshaw poured it and there was an uncomfortable silence. Zhark asked whether I knew where Handley Paige lived, but the big-game hunter gave him a stern look and he was quiet.

They all talked to me about Thursday and what she had done in the fictional BookWorld. The stories were all highly unbelievable but I didn't think to question any of them — I was just glad of the company, and happy to hear about what she had been doing over the past two years. Mrs Bradshaw gave me a rundown of what Friday had been up to as well; and even offered to corne and look after him whenever I wanted. Zhark was more interested in talking about Handley, but still had time to tell me a wholly unbelievable story about how he and Thursday had dealt with a Martian who had escaped from The War of the Worlds and turned up in The Wind in the Willows.

'It's a "W" thing,' he explained, 'in the titles, I mean. Wind-War, Worlds-Willows, they are so similar that—

Bradshaw nudged him to be quiet.

They left two hours later, slightly full of drink and very full of Battenberg. I noticed that the tall one in the black cloak had rifled though my address book before he left and when I looked he had left it open at Handley's address. I returned to the living room and sat on the sofa until sleep overcame me.

I was woken by Pickwick wanting to be let out, and Alan wanting to be let in. The smaller dodo had some paint spilled on him, smelt of perfume, had a blue ribbon tied around his left foot and was holding a mackerel in his beak. I have no idea to this day what he'd been getting up to. I went upstairs, checked that Friday was sleeping in his cot, then had a long shower and a shave.

41

Death Becomes Her

SUPERHOOP ASSAILANT 'VANISHES'

The mysterious assassin who shot the Mallets' team manager has not yet been found, despite a vigorous SpecOps search. 'Its still early days in the investigation,' said a police spokesman, 'but from clothes left at the crime scene we are interested in interviewing a Mr Norman Johnson, who we understand has been staying at the Finis Hotel for the past week.' Asked to comment further on the rumoured link between the attack on Miss Next and a grand piano incident last Friday, the same police spokesman confirmed that the attacks were connected, but wouldn't be pressed on details, Miss Next is still in St Septyks Hospital where her condition is reported as 'critical.'

Article in the Swindon Daily Eyestrain, 24 July 1988

'Table seventeen?'

'Sorry?'

'Table seventeen. You are table seventeen, I take it?'

I looked up at the waitress in a confused manner. A second ago I had been taking a penalty during a Superhoop — and now I was in a cafeteria somewhere. She was a kindly woman with a friendly manner. I looked at the table marker. I was table seventeen.

'Yes?'

'You're to go ... northside .'

I must have looked confused because she repeated it and then gave me directions: along the concourse, past the Coriolanus Will-Speak machine, up the stairs and across the pedestrian walkway.

I thanked her and got up. I was still dressed in my croquet gear

but without mallet or helmet, and I touched my head gently where I could feel a small hole. I stopped for a moment and looked around. I had been here before, and recently. I was in a motorway services. The same one that I had visited with Spike. But where was Spike? And why couldn't I remember how I got here?

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