Lost in a Good Book

‘—Lord of the old realm who wants—’

‘—to try and get—’

‘—back into power with the help—’

‘—of his friends in the Whig party?’

‘But the important thing is, in all this dialogue—’

‘—that has pitched back and forward between—’

‘—the two of us, a fictional person—’

‘—might have lost track of which one of us is talking.’

‘And do you know, in all the excitement, I kind of forgot myself!’

There was another crash against the door. A splinter of steel flew off and zipped past my ear. The doors were almost breached, the next blow would bring the abomination within the room.

‘So you’re going to have to ask yourselves one simple question: Which one of us is speaking now?’

‘You are!’ yelled Volescamper, pointing—correctly—at me. Kaine, revealing his fictional roots by his inability to follow undedicated dialogue, pointed his finger—at Tweed.

He corrected himself quickly but it was too late for the politician and he knew it. He scowled at the two of us, trembling with rage. His charming manner seemed to desert him as we sprang the trap; suaveness gave way to snarling, smooth politeness to clumsy threats.

‘Now listen,’ growled Kaine, trying to regain control of the situation, ‘you two are way in over your heads. Try to arrest me and I can make things very difficult for you—one Footnoterphone call from me and the pair of you will spend the next eternity on grammasite watch inside the OED’

But Tweed was made of stern stuff, too.

‘I’ve closed bloopholes in Dracula and Biggles Flies East,’ he replied evenly, ‘I don’t frighten easily. Call off the Glatisant and put your hands on your head.’

‘Leave Cardenio here with me—if only until tomorrow,’ added Kaine, changing tack abruptly and forcing a smile. ‘In return I can give you anything you want. Power, cash—an earldom, Cornwall, character exchange into Hemingway—you name it, Kaine will provide!’

‘You have nothing of any value to bargain with, Mr Kaine,’ Tweed told him, his hand tightening on his pistol. ‘For the last time—’

But Kaine had no intention of being taken, alive or otherwise. He cursed us both to a painful excursion in the twelfth circle of hell and melted from view as Tweed fired. The slug buried itself harmlessly in a complete set of bound Punch magazines. At the same time the steel doors burst open. But instead of a pestilential hell-beast conjured from the depths of mankind’s most depraved thoughts only an icy rush of air entered, bringing with it the lingering smell of death. The Questing Beast had vanished as quickly as its master, back to the oral tradition and any books unfortunate enough to feature it.

‘Cat!’ yelled Tweed as he reholstered his gun. ‘We’ve got a PageRunner. I need a bookhound ASAP!’ [26]

Volescamper sat down on a handy chair and looked bewildered.

‘You mean…’ he stammered incredulously. ‘Look here, Kaine was—?’

‘Entirely fictional—yes,’ I replied, laying a hand on his shoulder.

‘You mean Cardenio didn’t belong to my grandfather’s library after all?’ he asked, his confusion giving way to sadness.

‘I’m sorry, Volescamper,’ I told him. ‘Kaine stole the manuscript. He used your library as a front.’

‘And if I were you,’ added Tweed in a less kindly aside, ‘I should just go upstairs and pretend you slept all through this. You never saw us, never heard us, you know nothing of what happened here.’

‘Bingo!’ cried Raffles as the handle on the safe turned, shattering the frozen lock inside and creaking open. Raffles handed me the manuscript before he and Bunny vanished back to their own book with only the thanks of Jurisfiction to show for the night’s efforts—a valuable commodity on their side of the law.

I passed Cardenio to Tweed. He rested a reverential hand on the returned play and smiled a rare smile.

‘An undedicated dialogue trap, Next—quick thinking. Who knows, we might make a Jurisfiction agent of you yet!’

‘Well, thank—’

‘—Cat!’ bellowed Tweed again. ‘Where’s that blasted bookhound?’ [27]

A large and sad-looking bloodhound appeared from nowhere, looked at us both lugubriously, made a sort of hopeless doggy-sigh and then started to sniff the books scattered on the floor in a professional manner. Tweed snapped a lead on the dog’s collar.

‘If I was the sort of person to apologise—’ he conceded, straining at the leash of the bookhound which had locked on to the scent of one of Kaine’s expletives, ‘—I would. Join me in the hunt for Kaine?’

It was tempting but I remembered Dad’s prediction.

‘I have to save the world tomorrow,’ I announced, surprising myself by just how matter-of-fact I sounded. Tweed didn’t seem in the least surprised.

‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Well, another time, then. On, sir, seek, away!’

The bookhound gave an excited bark and leaped forward; Tweed hung grimly on to the leash and they both disappeared into fine mist and the smell of hot paper.

‘I suppose,’ said Lord Volescamper, interrupting the silence in a glum voice, ‘that this means I won’t be in Kaine’s government after all?’

‘Politics is overrated,’ I told him.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he agreed, getting up. ‘Well, goodnight, Miss Next. I didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, is that right?’

‘Nothing at all.’

Volescamper sighed and looked at the shattered remains of the interior of his house. He picked his way to the twisted steel door and turned to face me.

‘Always was a heavy sleeper. Look here, pop round for tea and scones one day, why don’t you?’

‘Thank you, sir. I shall. Goodnight.’

Volescamper gave me a desultory wave and was soon out of sight. I smiled to myself at the revelation of Kaine’s fictional identity; I reckoned that not being a real person had to present a pretty good obstacle to being Prime Minister, but I couldn’t help wondering just how much power he did wield within the world of fiction—and whether I had heard the last of him—after all, the Whig party was still in existence, with or without their leader. Still, Tweed was a professional, and I had other things to deal with.

I looked down the corridor, past the twisted doors. The front of Vole Towers was virtually destroyed; the ceiling had collapsed and rubble lay strewn around where the Glatisant had fought the very finest of SO-14. I picked my way through the twisted door and down the corridor where deep gouges had been scraped in the floor and walls by the leaden hide of the beast. The remaining SpecOps 14 operatives had all pulled back to regroup and I slipped out in the confusion. Nine good men fell to the Questing Beast that night. The officers would all be awarded the SpecOps Star for ‘Conspicuous bravery in the face of Other’.

As I walked along the gravel drive away from what remained of Vole Towers I could see a white charger galloping towards me, the warrior on its back holding a sharpened lance while behind him a dog barked excitedly. I waved King Pellinore to a halt.

‘Ah!’ he said, raising his visor and peering down at me. ‘The Next girl! Seen the Questin’ Beast, what, what?’

‘You’ve missed it,’ I explained. ‘Sorry.’

‘Dem shame,’ announced Pellinore sadly, parking the lance in his stirrup. ‘Dem shame indeed, eh? I’ll find it, you know. It is the lot of the Pellinores, to go a-mollocking for the beastly beast. Come, sir—away!’

He spurred his steed and galloped off across the parkland of Vole Towers, the horse’s hooves throwing