Lost in a Good Book

‘Why would Volescamper have anything to do with a minor right-wing pro-Crimean Welsh-hater like Kaine?’

‘Because he’s a lord and wants to reclaim some lost power?’

At that moment two other SpecOps operatives walked past and one of them nodded to the young agent at the door and said: ‘All well, Miles?’

The dashing young SO-14 agent said that all was well, but he was wrong—all was not well, at least it wasn’t for me. I thought I might bump into Miles eventually but not unprepared, like this. I stared at him, hoping my shock and surprise wouldn’t show. He had spent time in my flat and knew me a lot better than I knew him. My heart thumped inside my chest and I tried to say something intelligent and witty but it came out more like:

‘Asterfobulongus?’

‘I’m sorry, what was that?’

‘Nothing.’

Miles looked to left and right and leaned a little closer.

‘You seemed a bit upset when I called, Thursday. Is there a problem with our arrangement?’

I stared at him for a few seconds in numbed silence before mumbling:

‘No—no, not at all.’

‘Good!’ he said. ‘We must fix a date or two.’

‘Yes,’ I said, running on auto-fear, ‘yes, we must Gottogo—bye.’

I trotted off before he could say anything else. I paused for breath outside the door to the library. Sooner or later I was going to have to ask him straight out. I decided on the face of it that later suited me better than sooner, so walked through the heavy steel doors and into the library. Yorrick Kaine and Lord Volescamper were sitting behind a table, and beyond them was Mr Swaike and two security guards who were standing either side of the play itself, proudly displayed behind a sheet of bullet-proof glass. The press conference was halfway through, and I tapped Lydia Startright—who happened to be standing quite near—on the arm.

‘Hey, Lyds!’ I said in a low whisper.

‘Hey, Thursday,’ replied the reporter. ‘I heard you did the initial authentication. How good is it?’

‘Very good,’ I replied. ‘Somewhere on a par with The Tempest. What’s happening here?’

‘Volescamper has just officially announced he is giving the play to Yorrick Kaine and the Whigs.’

‘Why?’

‘Who knows? Hang on, I want to ask a question.’

Lydia stood up and raised her hand. Kaine pointed at her.

‘What do you propose to do with the play, Mr Kaine? We understand that there has been talk of offers in the region of a hundred million pounds.’

‘Good question,’ replied Yorrick Kaine, getting to his feet. ‘We in the Whig party thank Lord Volescamper for his kind generosity. I am of the opinion that Cardenio is not for one person or group to exploit, so we in the Whig party propose offering free licences to perform the play to anyone who wishes to do so.’

There was an excited babbling from the attendant journalists as they took this in. It was an act of unprecedented generosity, especially from Kaine, but more than that, it was the right thing to do, and the press suddenly warmed to Yorrick. It was as if Kaine had never suggested the invasion of Wales two years earlier or the reduction of the right to vote the year before; I was instantly suspicious.

There were several more questions about the play and a lot of well-practised answers from Kaine, who seemed to have reinvented himself as a caring and sharing patriarch and not the extremist of yore. After the press conference had ended, I made my way to the front and approached Volescamper who looked at me oddly for a moment.

‘The Spoon report,’ I told him, handing him the buff-coloured file, ‘about the authentication… we thought you might want to see it.’

‘What? Of course?’

Volescamper took the report and glanced at it in a cursory manner before passing it to Kaine who seemed to show more interest. Kaine didn’t even look at me but since I obviously wasn’t going to leave like some message-girl, Volescamper introduced me.

‘Oh yes! Mr Kaine, this is Thursday Next, SpecOps-27.’

Kaine looked up from the report. His manner abruptly changed to one of charm and gushing friendship.

‘Ms Next, delighted!’ he enthused. ‘I read of your exploits with great interest and, believe me, your intervention improved the narrative of Jane Eyre considerably!’

I wasn’t impressed by him or his faux charm.

‘Think you can change the Whig party’s fortunes, Mr Kaine?’

‘The party is undergoing something of a restructuring at present,’ replied Kaine, fixing me with a serious stare. ‘Old ideology has been retired and the party now looks forward to a fresh look at England’s political future. Rule by informed patriarch and voting restricted to responsible property owners is the future, Miss Next—ruling by committee has been the death of common sense for far too long.’

‘And Wales?’ I asked. ‘Where do you stand on Wales these days?’

‘Wales is historically part of the greater Britain,’ announced Kaine in a slightly more guarded manner. ‘The Welsh have been flooding the English market with cheap goods and this has to stop—but I have no plans whatsoever for forced unification.’

I stared at him for a moment.

‘You have to get into power first, Mr Kaine.’

The smile dropped from his face.

‘Thank you for delivering the report, Miss Next,’ put in Volescamper hurriedly. ‘Can I offer you a drink or something before you go?’

I took the hint and made my way to the front door. I stood and looked at the outside broadcast units thoughtfully. Yorrick Kaine was playing his hand well.

21. Les Arts Modernes de Swindon, ’85

‘The Very Irreverent Joffy Next was the minister for the Global Standard Deity’s first church in England. The GSD had a little bit of all religions, arguing that if there was one God, then He would really have very little to do with all the fluff and muddle down here on the material plane, and a streamlining of the faiths might very well be in His interest. Worshippers came and went as they pleased, prayed according to how they felt most happy, and mingled freely with other GSD members. It enjoyed moderate success, but what God actually thought of it no one ever really knew.’

PROFESSOR M. BLESSINGTON, PR (retd)—The Global Standard Deity

I paid to have my car released with a cheque that I felt sure would bounce, then drove home and had a snack and a shower before driving over to Wanborough and Joffy’s first ‘Les arts modernes de Swindon’ exhibition. Joffy had asked me for a list of my colleagues to boost the numbers, so I fully expected to see some work people there. I had even asked Cordelia, who I had to admit was great fun when not in PR mode. The art exhibition was being held in the Global Standard Deity church at Wanborough and had been opened by Frankie Saveloy a half-hour before I arrived. It seemed quite busy as I stepped inside; all the pews had been moved out and artists, critics, press and potential purchasers milled among the eclectic collection of art. I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter, suddenly remembered I shouldn’t be drinking, sniffed at it longingly