Lost in a Good Book

I sighed. My untold story looked set to remain exactly that. Adrian Lush, supposed champion of free speech, the man who had dared to air the grievances felt by the Neanderthal, the first to suggest publicly that the Goliath Corporation ‘had shortcomings’, was about to have his nails well and truly clipped.

‘Colonel Flanker you’ve already met,’ went on Braxton without drawing breath.

I eyed the man suspiciously. I knew him well enough. He was at SpecOps 1, the division that polices SpecOps itself. He had interviewed me about the night I had first tried to tackle master criminal Acheron Hades— the night Snood and Tamworth died. He tried to smile several times but eventually gave up and offered his hand for me to shake instead.

‘This is Colonel Rabone,’ Braxton carried on. ‘She is head of Combined Forces Liaison.’ I shook hands with the colonel.

‘Always honoured to meet a holder of the Crimean Cross,’ she said, smiling.

‘And over here,’ continued Braxton in a jocular tone that was obviously designed to put me at ease—a ploy that failed spectacularly—’is Mr Schitt-Hawse of the Goliath Corporation.’

Schitt-Hawse was a tall, thin man whose pinched features seemed to compete for position in the centre of his face. His head tilted to the left in a manner that reminded me of an inquisitive budgerigar, and his dark hair was fastidiously combed back from his forehead. He put out his hand.

‘Would it upset you if I didn’t shake it?’ I asked him.

‘Well, yes,’ he replied, trying to be affable.

‘Good.’

Anyone from the vast multinational known as Goliath was about as welcome to me as an infestation of worms. The Corporation’s pernicious hold over the nation was not universally appreciated and I had a far greater reason to dislike them—the last Goliath employee I dealt with was an odious character by the name of Jack Schitt, who not only tried to kill me and my partner, but had also planned to prolong and escalate the Crimean War in order to create demand for the latest Goliath weaponry. We had tricked him into a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, a place in which I hoped he could do no harm.

‘Schitt-Hawse, eh?’ I said. ‘Any relation to Jack?’

‘He was—is—my half-brother,’ said Schitt-Hawse slowly, ‘and believe me, Ms Next, he wasn’t working for Goliath when he became involved with Hades and the Plasma Rifle.’

‘If he had been would you admit it?’

Schitt-Hawse scowled and said nothing. Braxton coughed politely and continued:

‘And this is Mr Chesterman of the Bronte Federation.’

Chesterman blinked at me uncertainly. The changes I had wrought upon Jane Eyre had split the Federation. I hoped he was one of those who preferred the happier ending.

‘Back there is Captain Marat of the ChronoGuard,’ continued Braxton. Marat looked at me with interest. The ChronoGuard were the SpecOps division that took care of Anomalous Time Ripplation—my father was one or is one or would be one, depending on how you looked at it.

‘Have we met before?’ I asked him.

‘Not yet,’ he replied.

‘Well!’ said Braxton, clapping his hands together. ‘I think that’s everyone. Next, I want you to pretend we’re just not here.’

‘Observers, yes?’

‘Absolutely. I—’

Braxton was interrupted by a slight disturbance off-stage.

‘The bastards!’ yelled a high voice. ‘If the Network dares to replace my Monday slot with reruns of Bonzo the Wonder Hound I’ll sue them for every penny they have!’

A tall man of perhaps fifty-five had walked into the studio accompanied by a small group of assistants. He had handsome chiselled features and a luxuriant swirl of white hair that looked as though it had been carved from polystyrene. He wore an immaculately tailored suit and his fingers were heavily weighed down with gold jewellery. He stopped short when he saw us.

‘Ah!’ said Adrian Lush disdainfully. ‘SpecOps!’

His entourage flustered around him with lots of energy but very little purpose. They seemed to hang on his every word and action and I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of relief that I wasn’t in the entertainment business.

‘I’ve had a lot to do with you people in the past,’ explained Lush as he made himself comfortable on his trademark green sofa, something he clearly regarded as a territorial safe retreat. ‘It was I that coined the phrase “SpecOops” for whenever you make a mistake—sorry, “operational unexpectation”, isn’t that what you like to call them?’

But Hicks ignored Lush’s dig and introduced me as though I were his only daughter being offered up for marriage.

‘Mr Lush, this is Special Operative Thursday Next.’

Lush jumped up and bounded over to shake me by the hand in an effusive and energetic manner. Flanker and the others sat down; they looked very small in the middle of the empty studio. They weren’t going to leave and Lush wasn’t going to ask them to—I knew that Goliath owned Network Toad and was beginning to doubt whether Lush had any control over this interview at all.

‘Hello, Thursday!’ said Lush excitedly. ‘Welcome to my Monday show. It’s the second-highest-rated show in England—my Wednesday show is the first!’

He laughed infectiously and I smiled uneasily.

‘Then this will be your Thursday show,’ I replied, eager to lighten the situation.

There was dead silence.

‘Will you be doing that a lot?’ asked Lush.

‘Doing what?’

‘Making jokes. You see… have a seat, darling. You see, I generally make the jokes on this show, and although it’s perfectly okay for you to make jokes, if you do I’m going to have to pay someone to write funnier ones, and our budget, like Goliath’s scruples, is on the small side of Leptonic.’

‘Can I say something’!’ said a voice from the small audience. It was Flanker, who carried on talking without waiting for a reply. ‘SpecOps is a serious business and should be reflected as such in your interview. Next, I think you should let Mr Lush tell the jokes.’

‘Is that all right?’ asked Lush, beaming.

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Is there anything else I shouldn’t do?’

Lush looked at me and then looked at the panel in the front row.

‘Is there?’

They all mumbled among themselves for a few seconds.

‘I think,’ said Flanker, ‘that we—sorry, you—should just do the interview and then we can discuss it later. Miss Next can say whatever she wants as long as it doesn’t contravene any SpecOps or Goliath corporate guidelines.’

‘Or military,’ added Colonel Rabone, anxious not to be left out.

‘Is that okay?’ asked Lush.

‘Whatever,’ I returned, eager to get on with it.

‘Excellent! I’ll do your intro, although you’ll be off-camera for that. The floor manager will cue you and you’ll enter. Wave to where the audience might have been and when you are comfy I’ll ask you some questions. I may offer you some toast at some point as our sponsors, the Toast Marketing Board, like to get a plug in now and again. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Here we go.’

He had his hair arranged down to the last follicle, his costume tweaked and the pieces of tissue paper