Something rotten

'One.'

I walked into Mum's hairdresser. The stylists looked at my hair with a sort of shocked numbness until Lady Volescamper, who along with her increasingly eccentric mayoral husband constituted Swindon's most visible aristocracy, suddenly pointed at me and said in a strident tone that could shatter glass:

'That's the style I want. Something new. Something retro — something to cause a sensation at the Swindon Mansion House Ball!'

Mrs Barnet, who was both the chief stylist and official gossip laureate of Swindon, kept her look of horror to herself and then said diplomatically:

'Of course. And may I say that Her Grace's boldness matches her sense of style.'

Lady Volescamper returned to her Femole magazine, appearing not to recognise me, which was just as well — the last time I went to Vole Towers a hell beast from the darkest depths of the human imagination trashed the entrance lobby.

'Hello, Thursday,' said Mrs Barnet, wrapping a sheet around me with an expert flourish, 'haven't seen you for a while.'

'I've been away.'

'In prison?'

'No — just away.'

'Ah. How would you like it? I have it on good authority that the 'Joan of Arc' look is set to be quite popular this summer.'

'You know I'm not a fashion person, Gladys. Just get rid of the dopey haircut, would you?'

'As madame wishes.' She hummed to herself for a moment, then asked: 'Been on holiday this year?'

I got back to the car a half-hour later to find Hamlet talking to a traffic warden, who seemed so engrossed in whatever he was telling her that she wasn't writing me a ticket.

'And that,' said Hamlet as soon as I came within earshot, making a thrusting motion with his hand, 'was when I cried: 'A rat, a rat!' and killed the unseen old man. Hello, Thursday — goodness, that's short, isn't it?'

'It's better than it was. C'mon, I've got to go and get my job back.'

'Job?' asked Hamlet as we drove off, leaving a very indignant traffic warden, who wanted to know what happened next.

'Yes. Out here you need money to live.'

'I've got lots,' said Hamlet generously. 'You should have some of mine.'

'Somehow I don't think fictional kroner from an unspecified century will cut the mustard down at the First Goliath — and put the skull away. They aren't generally considered a fashion accessory here in the Outland.'

'They're all the rage where I come from.'

'Well, not here. Put it in this Tesco's bag.'

'STOP!'

I screeched to a halt.

'What?'

'That, over there. It's me!'

Before I could say anything Hamlet had jumped out of the car and run across the road to a coin-operated machine on the comer of the street. I parked the Speedster and walked over to join him. He was staring with delight at the simple box, the top half of which was glazed; inside was a suitably attired mannequin visible from the waist up.

'It's called a Will-Speak machine,' I said, passing him a carrier bag. 'Here — put the skull in the bag like I asked.'

'What does it do?'

'Officially it's called a Shakespeare Soliloquy Vending Automaton,' I explained. 'You put in two shillings and get a short snippet from Shakespeare.'

'Of me?'

'Yes,' I said, 'of you.'

For it was, of course, a Hamlet Will-Speak machine, and the mannequin Hamlet sat looking blankly out at the flesh-and-blood Hamlet standing next to me.

'Can we hear a bit?' asked Hamlet excitedly.

'If you want. Here.'

I dug out a coin and placed it in the machine. There was a whirring and clicking as the dummy came to life.

'To be, or not to be,' began the mannequin in a hollow metallic voice. The machine had been built in the thirties and was now pretty much worn out. 'That is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind—'

Hamlet was fascinated, like a child listening to a tape recording of their own voice for the first time.

'Is that really me?' he asked.

'The words are yours — but actors do it a lot better.'

'—or to take arms against a sea of troubles—'

'Actors?'

'Yes. Actors, playing Hamlet.'

He looked confused.

'—That flesh is heir to—'

'I don't understand.'

'Well,' I began, looking around to check that no one was listening, 'you know that you are Hamlet, from Shakespeare's Hamlet?

'Yes?'

'—To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream—'

'Well, that's a play, and out here in the Outland, people act out that play.'

'With me?'

'Of you. Pretending to be you.'

'But I'm the real me?'

'—Who would fardels bear—'

'In a manner of speaking.'

'Ahhh,' he said after a few moments of deep thought, 'I see. Like the whole Murder of Gonzago thing. I wondered how it all worked. Can we go and see me some time?'

'I . . . suppose,' I answered uneasily. 'Do you really want to?'

'—from whose bourn No traveller returns—'

'Of course. I've heard that some people in the Outland think I am a dithering twit unable to make up his mind rather than a dynamic leader of men, and these 'play' things you describe will prove it to me one way or the other.'

I tried to think of the movie in which he prevaricates the least.

'We could get the Zeffirelli version out on video for you to look at.'

'Who plays me?'

'Mel Gibson.'

'—Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all—'

Hamlet stared at me, mouth open.

'But that's incredible!' he said ecstatically. 'I'm Mel's biggest fan!' He thought for a moment. 'So. . . Horatio must be played by Danny Glover, yes?'

'—sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought—'

'No, no. Listen: the Lethal Weapon series is nothing like Hamlet.'

'Well,' replied the prince reflectively, 'in that I think you might be mistaken. The Martin Riggs character begins with self-doubt and contemplates suicide over the loss of a loved one, but eventually turns into a decisive man of action and kills all the bad guys.' He paused for a moment. 'Same as the Mad Max