Something Rotten by Jasper Fforde

She attempted to push past, but I had a brainwave.

  'No, Mother, you'll embarrass them – and yourself.'

  She stopped.

  'What do you mean?'

  'It's Emma.'

  'Emma? What about her?'

  'Emma . . . and Hamlet.'

  She looked shocked and covered her mouth with her hand.

  'In there? On my sofa?'

  I nodded.

  'Doing . . . you know? Both of them – together?'

  'And very naked – but they folded the antimacassars first,' I added, so as not to shock her too much.

  She shook her head sadly.

  'It's not good, you know, Thursday.'

  'I know.'

  'Highly immoral.'

  'Very.'

  'Well, let's have that cup of tea and you can tell me about that emotional problem of yours – is it about Daisy Mutlar?'

  'No – I don't have any emotional problems.'

  'But you said—?'

  'Yes, Mother, that was an excuse to stop you barging in on Emma and Hamlet.'

  'Oh,' she said, realisation dawning. 'Well, let's have a cup of tea anyway.'

  I breathed a sigh of relief and Mother walked into the kitchen – to find Hamlet and Emma talking as they did the washing up. Mother stopped dead and stared at them.

  'It's disgusting!' she said at last.

  'Excuse me?' enquired Hamlet.

  'What you're doing in the living room – on my sofa.'

  'What are we doing, Mrs Next?' asked Emma.

  'What are you doing?' flustered my mother, her voice rising. 'I'll tell you what you're doing. Well, I won't because it's too . . . here, have a look for yourself

  And before I could stop her she opened the door to the living room to reveal . . . Friday, alone, asleep on the sofa. My mother looked confused and stared at me.

  'Thursday, just what is going on?'

  'I can't even begin to explain it,' I replied, wondering where Melanie had gone. It was a big room but not nearly large enough to hide a gorilla. I leaned in and saw that the French windows were ajar. 'Must have been a trick of the light.'

  'Trick of the light?'

  'Yes. May I?'

  I closed the door and froze as I noticed Melanie tiptoeing across the lawn, fully visible through the kitchen windows.

  'How can it be a trick of the light?'

  'I'm not really sure,' I stammered. 'Have you changed the curtains in here? They look kind of different.'

  'No. Why didn't you want me to look in the living room?'

  'Because . . . because ... I asked Mrs Beatty to look after Friday and I knew you didn't approve but now she's gone and everything is okay.'

  'Ah!' said my mother, satisfied at last. I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd got away with it.

  'Goodness!' said Hamlet, pointing. 'Isn't that a gorilla in the garden?'

  All eyes swivelled outside, where Melanie had stopped in mid-stride over the sweet Williams. She paused for a moment, gave an embarrassed smile and waved her hand in greeting.

  'Where?' said my mother. 'All I can see is an unusually hairy woman tiptoeing through my sweet Williams.'

  'That's Mrs Bradshaw,' I murmured, casting an angry glance at Hamlet. 'She's been doing some childcare for me.'

  'Well, don't let her wander around the garden, Thursday – ask her in!'

  Mum put down her shopping and filled the kettle. 'Poor Mrs Bradshaw must think us dreadfully inhospitable – do you suppose she'd fancy a slice of Battenberg?'

  Hamlet and Emma stared at me and I shrugged. I beckoned Melanie into the house and introduced her to my mother.

  'Pleased to meet you,' said Melanie, 'you have a very lovely grandchild.'

  'Thank you,' my mother replied, as though the effort had been entirely hers. 'I do my best.'

  'I've just come back from Trafalgar,' I said, turning to Lady Hamilton. 'Dad's restored your husband and he said he'd pick you up at eight thirty tomorrow.'

  'Oh!' she said, with not quite as much enthusiasm as I had hoped. 'That's . . . that's wonderful news.'

  'Yes,' added Hamlet more sullenly, 'wonderful news.'

  They looked at one another.

  'I'd better go and pack,' said Emma.

  'Yes,' replied Hamlet, 'I'll help you.'

  And they both left the kitchen.

  'What's wrong with them?' asked Melanie, helping herself to a slice of the proffered cake and sitting down on one of the chairs, which creaked ominously.

  'Lovesick,' I replied. And I think they genuinely were.

  'So, Mrs Bradshaw,' began my mother, settling into business mode, 'I have recently become an agent for some beauty products, many of which are completely unsuitable for people who are bald – if you get my meaning.'

  'Ooooh!' exclaimed Melame, leaning closer. She did have a problem with facial hair – hard not to, being a gorilla – and had never had the benefit of talking to a cosmetics consultant. Mum would probably end up trying to sell her some Tupperware, too.

  I went upstairs, where Hamlet and Emma were arguing. She seemed to be saying that her 'dear Admiral' needed her more than anything, and Hamlet said that she should come and live with him at Elsinore and 'to hell with Ophelia'. Emma replied that this really wasn't practical and then Hamlet made an extremely long and intractable speech which I think meant that nothing in the real world was simple or slick and he lamented the day he ever left his play, and that he was sure Ophelia had discussed country matters with Horatio when his back was turned. Then Emma got confused and thought he was impugning her Horatio, and when he explained that it was his friend Horatio she changed her mind and said she would come with him to Elsinore, but then Hamlet thought perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all and he made another long speech until even Emma got bored and she crept downstairs for a beer and returned before he'd even noticed she had gone. After a while he just talked himself to a standstill without having made any decision – which was just as well as there wasn't a play for him to return to.

  I was just pondering whether finding a cloned Shakespeare was actually going to be possible when I heard a tiny wail. I went back downstairs to find Friday blinking at me from the door to the living room, looking tousled and a little sleepy.

  'Sleep well, little man?'

  'Sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit,' he replied, which I took to mean: 'I have slept very well and now require a snack to see me through the next two hours.'

  I walked back into the kitchen, something niggling away at my mind. Something that Mum had said. Something that Stiggins had said. Or maybe Emma? I made Friday a chocolate-spread sandwich, which he proceeded to smear about his face.

  'I think you'll find I have just the colour for you,' said my mother, finding a shade of grey varnish that suited Melanie's black fur. 'Goodness – what strong nails!'

  'I don't dig as much as I used to,' replied Melanie with an air of nostalgia. Trafford doesn't like it. He thinks it makes the neighbours talk.'

  My heart missed a beat and I shouted out, quite spontaneously:

  'AHHHHHHHHH!'

  My mother jumped, painted a line of nail varnish up Melanie's hand and upset the bottle on to her polka-dot dress.

  'Look what you've made me do!' she scolded. Melanie didn't look very happy either.

  'Posh, Murray Posh, Daisy Posh, Daisy Mutlar – why did you . . . mention Daisy Mutlar a few minutes ago?'

  'Well, because I thought you'd be annoyed she was still around.'

  Daisy Mutlar, it must be understood, was someone whom Landen nearly married during our ten-year enforced separation. But that wasn't important. What was important was that without Landen there had never been any Daisy. And if Daisy was around, then Landen must be too—

  I looked down at my hand. On my ring finger was ... a ring. A wedding ring. I pulled it forward to the knuckle to reveal a white ridge. It looked as though it had always been there. And if it had—

  'Where's Landen now?'

  'At his house, I shoul
d imagine,' said my mother. 'Are you staying here for supper?'

  'Then . . . he's not eradicated?'

  She looked confused.

  'Good Lord no!'

  I narrowed my eyes.

  'Then I didn't ever go to Eradications Anonymous?'

  'Of course not, darling. You know that myself and Mrs Beatty are the only people who ever attend – and Mrs Beatty is only there to comfort me. What on earth are you talking about? And come back! Where do you—'

  I opened the door and was two paces down the garden path when I remembered I had left Friday behind, so went back to get him, found he had got chocolate down his front despite the bib, put his sweatshirt on over his T-shirt, found he had gllbbed down the front of it, got a clean one, changed his nappy and ... no socks.

  'What are you doing, darling?' asked my mother as 1 rummaged in the laundry basket.

  'It's Landen,' I babbled excitedly, 'he was eradicated and now he's back and it's as though he'd never gone and I want him to meet Friday but Friday is way, way too sticky right now to meet his father.'

  'Eradicated? Landen? When?' asked my mother incredulously. 'Are you sure?'

  'Isn't that the point about eradication?' I replied, having found six socks, none of them matching. 'No one ever knows. It might surprise you to know that Eradications Anonymous once had forty or more attendees. When I came there were less than ten. You did a wonderful job, Mother. They'd all be really grateful – if only they could remember.'

  'Oh!' said my mother in a rare moment of complete clarity. 'Then . . . when eradicatees are brought back it is as if they had never gone. Ergo: the past automatically rewrites itself to take into account the non-eradication.'

  'Well, yes – more or less.'

  I slipped some odd socks on Friday's feet – he didn't help matters by splaying his toes – then found his shoes, one of which was under the sofa and the other right on top of the bookcase – Melanie had been climbing on the furniture, after all. I found a brush and tidied his hair, trying desperately to get an annoying crusty bit that smelt suspiciously of baked beans to lie flat. It didn't and I gave up, then washed his face, which he didn't like one bit. I was eventually on my way out of the door when I saw myself in the mirror and dashed back upstairs. I plonked Friday on the bed, put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt and tried to do something – anything – with my short hair.

  'What do you think?' I asked Friday, who was now sitting on the dressing table staring at me.

  'Aliquippa ex consequat.'

  'I hope that means: "you look adorable, Mum".'

  'Mollit anim est laborum.'

  I pulled on my jacket, walked out of my room, came back to brush my teeth and fetch Friday's polar bear, then was out the door again, telling Mum that I might not be back that night.

  My heart was still racing as I walked outside, ignoring the journalists, and popped Friday in the passenger seat of the Speedster, put down the hood – might as well arrive in style – and strapped him in. I inserted the key in the ignition and then—

  'Don't drive, Mum.'

  Friday spoke. I was speechless for a second, hand poised on the ignition.

  'Friday?' I said. 'You're talking—?'

  And then my heart grew cold. He was looking at me with the most serious look I had ever seen on a two-year-old before or since. And I knew the reason why. Cindy. It was the day of the second assassination attempt. In all the excitement I had completely forgotten. I slowly and very carefully took my hands off the key and left it where it was, trafficators blinking, oil and battery warning lights burning. I carefully unstrapped Friday, then, not wanting to open any of the doors, I climbed carefully out of the open top and took him with me. It was a close call.

  'Thanks, baby, I owe you – but why did you wait until now to say anything?'

  He didn't answer —just put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them innocently.

  'Strong silent type, eh? Come on, wonder-boy, let's call SO-14.'

  The police closed the road and the bomb squad arrived twenty minutes later, much to the excitement of the journalists and TV crews. They went live to the networks almost immediately, linking the bomb squad with my new job as the Mallets' manager, filling up any gaps in the story with speculation or, in one case, colourful invention.

  The four pounds of explosives had been connected to the starter motor relay. One more second and Friday and I would have been knocking on the pearly gates. I was jumping up and down with impatience by the time I had given a statement. I didn't tell them this was the second of three assassination attempts, nor did I tell them there would be another attempt at the end of the week. But I wrote it on my hand so I wouldn't forget.

  'Windowmaker,' I told them, 'yes, with an "N" – I don't know why. Well, yes – but sixty-eight if you count Samuel Pring. Reason? Who knows. I was the Thursday Next who changed the ending of Jane Eyre. Never read it? Preferred The Professor? Never mind. It'll be in my files. No, I'm with SO-27. Victor Analogy. His name's Friday. Two years old. Yes, he's very cute, isn't he? You do? Congratulations. No, I'd love to see the pictures. His aunt? Really? Can I go now?'

  After an hour they said I could leave so I plonked Friday in his buggy and pushed him rapidly up to Landen's place. I arrived a bit puffed and had to stop and regain my breath and my thoughts. The house was back to how I remembered it. The tub of Tickia orologica on the porch had vanished along with the pogo stick. Beyond the more tasteful curtains I could see movement within. I straightened my shirt, attempted to smooth Friday's hair, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell. My palms felt hot and sweaty and I couldn't control a stupid grin that had spread all over my face. I was carrying Friday for greater dramatic effect and moved him to the other hip as he was a bit of a lump. After what seemed like several hours but was, I suspect, less than ten seconds, the door opened to reveal. . . Landen, every bit as tall and handsome and as large as life as I had wished to see him all these past years. He wasn't as I remembered him – he was way better than that. My love, my life, the father of my son – made human. I felt the tears start to well up in my eyes and tried to say something but all that came out was a stupid snorty cough. He stared at me and I stared at him, then he stared at me some more, and I stared at him some more, then I thought perhaps he didn't recognise me with the short hair, so I tried to think of something really funny and pithy and clever to say but couldn't, so I shifted Friday to the other hip as he was becoming even more of a lump with every passing second and said, rather stupidly:

  'It's Thursday.'

  'I know who it is,' he said unkindly. 'You've got a bloody nerve, haven't you?'

  And he shut the door in my face.

  I was stunned for a moment and had to recover my thoughts before I rang the doorbell again. There was another pause that seemed to last an hour but I suspect was only fractionally longer – thirteen seconds, tops – and the door opened again.

  'Well,' said Landen, 'if it isn't Thursday Next.'

  'And Friday,' I replied, 'your son.'

  'My son,' replied Landen, deliberately not looking at him, 'right.'

  'What's the matter?' I asked, tears starting to well up again in my eyes, 'I thought you'd be pleased to see me!'

  He let out a long breath and rubbed his forehead.

  'It's difficult—'

  'What's difficult? How can anything be difficult?'

  'Well,' he began, 'you disappear from my life two and a half years ago, I haven't seen hide nor hair of you. Not a postcard, not a letter, not a phone call, nothing. And then you just turn up on my doorstep as though nothing has happened and I should be pleased to see you!'

  I sort of breathed a sigh of relief. Sort of. Somehow I always imagined Landen being uneradicated as just a simple sort of meeting each other after a long absence. I hadn't ever thought that Landen wouldn't know he had been eradicated. When he was gone no one had known he had ever existed, and now he was back no one knew he had gone. Not even him.

  'Ever heard of an
eradication?' I asked.

  He shook his head.

  I took a deep breath.

  'Well, two and a half years ago a chronupt member of SO-12 had you killed at the age of two in an accident. It was a blackmail attempt by a Goliath Corporation member called Brik Schitt-Hawse.'

  'I remember him.'

  'Right. And he wanted me to get his half-brother out of The Raven where Bowden and I had trapped him.'

  'I remember that, too.'

  'O-kay. So all of a sudden you didn't exist. Everything we had done together hadn't happened. I tried to get you back by going with my father to your accident in 1947, was thwarted and chose to live inside fiction while little Friday was born and return when I was ready. Which is now. End of story.'

  We stared at each other for another long moment that might also have been an hour but was probably only twenty seconds, I moved Friday to the other hip again and then finally he said:

  'The trouble is, Thursday, that things are different now. You vanished from my life. Gone. I've had to carry on.'

  'What do you mean?' I asked, suddenly feeling very uneasy.

  'Well, the thing is,' he went on slowly, 'I didn't think you were coming back. So I married Daisy Mutlar.'

  25

  Practical Difficulties Regarding Uneradications

  DANISH PERSON SOUGHT

  A man of Danish appearance was sought yesterday in connection with an armed robbery at the First Goliath Bank in Banbury. The man, described as being 'of Danish appearance', entered the bank at 9.35 and demanded that the teller hand over all the money. Five hundred pounds in sterling and a small amount of Danish Kroner held in the foreign currencies department were stolen. Police described this, small sum of Kroner as of 'particular significance' and pledged to wipe out the menace of Danish criminality as soon as possible. The public have been warned to be on the lookout for anyone of Danish appearance, and to let the police know of any Danes acting suspiciously, or, failing that, any Danes at all.

  Article in The Toad, 15 July 1988

  'You did what?'

  'Well, you did vanish without a trace – what was I meant to do?' I couldn't believe it. The little scumbag had sought solace in the arms of a miserable cow who wasn't good enough to carry his bag, let alone be his wife. I stared at him, speechless. I think my mouth might even have dropped open at that point, and I was just wondering whether I should burst into tears, kill him with my bare hands, slam the door, scream, swear or all of the above at the same time when I noticed that Landen was doing that thing he does when he's trying not to laugh.