Lost in a Good Book

great divots of grass high in the air, the large white dog running behind them, barking furiously

I returned to my apartment after giving an anonymous tip-off to The Mole, suggesting that they confirm the ongoing existence of Cardenio. The fact that I still had the apartment verified once and for all that Landen hadn’t been returned. I had been a fool to think that Goliath would honour their part of the deal. I sat in the dark for a while but even fools need rest, so I went to sleep under the bed as a precaution, which was just as well—at 3 a.m. Goliath turned up, had a good look around and then left. I stayed hidden as a further precaution and was glad of this also because SpecOps turned up at 4 a.m. and did exactly the same. Confident now of no further interruptions, I crawled out from my hiding place and climbed into bed, sleeping heavily until ten the next morning.

31. Dream Topping

‘Ever since calories and “sugar intake” were discovered the realm of the pudding has suffered intensely. There was a day when one could honestly and innocently enjoy the sheer pleasure of a good sticky toffee pudding; when ice cream was nice cream and Bakewell tart really was baked well. Tastes change, though, and the world of the sweet has often been sour, having to go through some dramatic overhaulage in order to keep pace. Whilst a straightforward sausage and a common kedgeree maintain their hold on the nation’s culinary choices, the pudding has to stay on its toes to tantalise our taste buds. From low fat through to no fat, from sugar free through to taste free; what the next stage is we can only wait and see…’

CILLA BUBB. Don’t Desert Your Desserts

I peered cautiously from the window as I ate my breakfast and could see a black SpecOps Packard on the street corner, doubtless waiting for me to make an appearance. Across the road from them was another car, this time the unmistakable deep blue of Goliath; Mr Cheese leaned against the bonnet, smoking. I switched on the telly and caught the news. The break-in at Vole Towers had been heavily censored but it was reported that an unknown ‘agency’ had gained entrance to the building, killed a number of SO-14 agents and made off with Cardenio. Lord Volescamper had been interviewed and maintained that he had been ‘sound asleep’ and knew nothing. Yorrick Kaine was reported as ‘missing’ and early exit polls from the day’s election had shown that Kaine and the Whigs had not lived up to expectations. Without Cardenio, the powerful Shakespeare lobby had returned their allegiances to the current administration, who had promised to postpone, with the help of the ChronoGuard, the eighteenth-century demolition of Shakespeare’s old Stratford home.

I allowed myself a wry smile at Kaine’s dramatic fall but felt sorry for the officers who had had to face the Questing Beast. I walked through to the kitchen. Pickwick looked at me and then at her empty supper dish with an accusing air.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered as I poured her some dried fruit.

‘How’s the egg?’

‘Plock-plock,’ said Pickwick.

‘Well,’ I replied, ‘suit yourself. I only asked.’

I made another cup of tea and sat down to have a think. Dad had said the world was going to end this evening but whether that was really going to happen or not, I had no idea. As for me, I was wanted by SpecOps and Goliath; I was going to have to either outwit them or lie very low for a long time. I spent most of the day pacing my apartment, trying to figure out the best course of action. I wrote out my account of what had happened and hid it behind the fridge, just in case. I expected Dad to turn up but the hours ticked by and everything carried on as normal. The Goliath and SpecOps vehicles were relieved by two others at midday, and as dusk drew on I became more desperate. I couldn’t stay trapped inside my own apartment for ever. Bowden and Joffy I could trust—and perhaps Miles, too. I elected to sneak out and use a public phone box to call Bowden, and was just about to open the door when someone pressed the intercom buzzer downstairs. I quickly ducked out of my apartment and started to run down the staircase. If I reached the bottom and made my way out through the service entrance I might be able to slip away. Then, disaster. One of the tenants was about to leave at that precise moment and opened the door for whoever it was. I heard a brusque voice.

‘Here for Miss Next—SpecOps.’

I cursed Mrs Scroggins as she replied:

‘Fourth floor, second on the left!’

The fire escape was out front in full view of SpecOps and Goliath, so I ran all the way back upstairs to my flat, only to find that in my hurry I had locked myself out. There was nowhere to hide except behind a potted rubber plant about seven sizes too small, so I pushed open the letterbox and hissed:

‘Pickwick!’

She wandered out into the hall from the living room and stared at me, head cocked on one side.

‘Good. Now listen. I know that Landen said you were really bright and if you don’t do this I’m going to be looped and you’re going to be put in a zoo. Now, I need you to find my keys.’

Pickwick stared at me dubiously, took two steps closer and then relaxed and plocked a bit.

‘Yes, yes, it’s me. All the marshmallows you can eat, Pickers, but I need my keys. My keys.’

Pickwick obediently stood on one leg.

‘Shit,’ I muttered.

‘Ah, Next!’ said a voice behind me. I rested my head against the door and let the letterbox snap shut.

‘Hello, Cordelia,’ I said softly without turning round.

‘Well, you have been giving us the runaround, haven’t you?’

I paused, turned and stood up. But Cordelia wasn’t with any other SpecOps types—she was with a man and his young daughter, the winners of her competition. Perhaps things were not quite as bad as I thought. I put my arm around her shoulder and walked her out of earshot.

‘Cordelia—’

‘Dilly.’

‘Dilly—’

‘Yes, Thurs?’

‘What’s the word over at SpecOps?’

‘Well, darling,’ answered Cordelia, ‘the order for your arrest is still only within SpecOps—Flanker is hoping you’ll give yourself up. Goliath are telling anyone who will listen that you stole some highly sensitive industrial secrets.’

‘It’s all bullshit, Cordelia.’

‘I know that, Thursday. But I’ve a job to do—are you going to meet my people now?’

I agreed, and we returned to where the two of them were looking at a brochure for the Gravitube.

‘Thursday Next, this is David Graham and his daughter, Molly.’

I shook hands with David; Molly stared at me dubiously from behind his leg, clutching a soft toy.

‘I’d invite you in for a coffee,’ I explained, ‘but I’ve locked myself out.’

David rummaged in his pocket and produced a set of keys.

‘Are these yours? I found them on the path outside.’

‘I don’t think that’s very likely.’

But they were my keys—a set I had lost a few days earlier. I unlocked the door.

‘Come on in. That’s Pickwick. Stay away from the windows; there are a few people I don’t want to meet outside.’

They shut the door behind them. Molly, overcoming her initial shyness, stared at Pickwick, who stared