“Who?” asked Hamlet, unconvincingly vague.

  “Lady Hamilton.”

  “Oh, her. Nice girl. We have a lot in common.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “Well,” said Hamlet, thinking hard, “we both have a good friend called Horatio.”

  We motored on down past the magic roundabout, and I pointed out the new stadium with its four floodlit towers standing tall amongst the low housing.

  “That’s our croquet stadium,” I said. “Thirty thousand seats. Home of the Swindon Mallets croquet team.”

  “Croquet is a national sport out here?”

  “Oh, yes,” I replied, knowing a thing or two about it, since I used to play myself. “It has evolved a lot since the early days. For a start the teams are bigger—ten a side in World Croquet League. The players have to get their balls through the hoops in the quickest possible time, so it can be quite rough. A stray ball can pack a wallop, and a flailing mallet is potentially lethal. The WCL insists on body armor and Plexiglas barriers for the spectators.”

  I turned left into Manchester Road and parked up behind a Griffin-6 Lowrider.

  “What now?”

  “Haircut. You don’t think I’m going to spend the next few weeks looking like Joan of Arc, do you?”

  “Ah!” said Hamlet. “You hadn’t mentioned it for a while, so I’d stopped noticing. If it’s all right with you, I’ll just stay here and write a letter to Horatio. Does ‘pirate’ have one t or two?”

  “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 recognize 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 and 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 had 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 grocery 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 corner 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 WillSpeak machine,” I said, passing him a shopping 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 WillSpeak 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 his 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?”

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

  “—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 sometime?”

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

  “—from whose bourn no traveler 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 does 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. Same as the Road Warrior series, really. Is Ophelia played by Patsy Kensit?”

  “No,” I replied, trying to be patient, “Helena Bonham Carter.”

  He perked up when he heard this. “This gets better and better! When I tell Ophelia, she’ll flip—if she hasn’t already.”

  “Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “you’d better see the Olivier version instead. Come on, we’ve work to do.”

  “—their currents turn awry / And lose the name of action.”

  The WillSpeak Hamlet stopped clicking and whirring and sat silent once more, waiting for the next florin.

  5.

  Ham (let) and Cheese

  “Seven Wonders of Swindon” Naming Bureaucracy Unveiled

  After five years of careful consideration, Swindon City Council has unveiled the naming procedure for the city’s much vaunted “Seven Wonders” tourism plan. The twenty-seven-point procedure is the most costly and complicated piece of bureaucracy the city has ever devised and might even be included as one of the wonders itself. The plan will be be undertaken by the Swindon Special Committee for Wonders, which will consider applications prepared by the Seven Wonders Working Party from six separate name-selection subcommittees. Once chosen, the wonders will be further scrutinized by eight different oversight committees before being adopted. The byzantine and needlessly expensive system is already tipped to win the coveted Red Tape Award from Bureaucracy Today.

  Article in Swindon Globe News, June 12, 1988

  I drove to the car park above the Brunel Centre and bought a pay-and-display ticket, noting how they had almost tripled in price since I was here last. I looked in my purse. I had fifteen pounds, three shillings and an old Skyrail ticket.

  “Short of cash?” asked Hamlet as we walked down the stairs to the street-level concourse.

  “Let’s just say I’m very ‘receipt rich’ at present.”

  Money had never been a problem in the BookWorld. All the details of life were taken care of by something called Narrative Assumption. A reader would assume you had gone shopping, or gone to the toilet, or brushed your hair, so a writer never needed to outline it—which was just as well, really. I’d forgotten all about the real-world trivialities, but I was actually quite enjoying them, in a mind-dulling sort of way.

  “It says here,” said Hamlet, who had been reading the newspaper, “that Denmark invaded England and put hundreds of innocent English citizens to death without trial!”

  “It was the Vikings in 786, Hamlet. I hardly think that warrants the headline BLOODTHIRSTY DANES GO ON RAMPAGE. Besides, at the time they were no more Danish than we were English.”

  “So we’re not the historical enemies of England?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And eating rollmop herrings won’t lead to erectile dysfunction?”

  “No. And keep your voice down. All these people are real, not D-7 generic crowd types. Out here, you only exist in a play.”

  “Okay,” he said, stopping at an electronics shop and staring at the TVs. “Who’s she?”

  “Lola Vavoom. An actress.”

  “Really? Has she ever played Ophelia?”

  “Many times.”

  “Was she better than Helena Bonham Carter?”

  “Both good—just different.”

  “Different? What do you mean?”

  “They both brought different things to the role.”

  Hamlet laughed. “I think you’re confusing the matter, Thursday. Ophelia is just Ophelia.”

  “Not out here. Listen, I’m just going to see how bad my overdraft is.”

  “How you Outlanders complicate matters!” he murmured. “If we were in a book right now, you’d be accosted by a solicitor who tells you a wealthy aunt has died and left you lots of money—and then we’d just start the next chapter with you in London making your way to Kaine’s office disguised as a cleaning woman.”

  “Excuse me!” said a suited gentleman who looked suspiciously like a solicitor. “But are you Thursday Next?”

  I glanced nervously at Hamlet.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Wentworth of Wentworth, Wentworth and Wentworth, Solicitors. I’m the second Wentworth, if you’re interested.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I wonder if I could have your autograph? I followed your Jane Eyre escapade with a great deal of interest.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and signed his autograph book. Mr. Wentworth thanked me and hurried off.

  “You had me worried for a moment there,” said Hamlet. “I thought I was meant to be the fictitious one.”

  “You are.” I smiled. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “Twenty-two thousand pounds?” I said to the cashier. “Are you sure?”

  The cashier looked at me with unblinking eyes, then at Hamlet, who was standing over me a bit indelicately.

  “Quite sure. Twenty-two thousand, three hundred eight pounds and four shillings three pence ha’penny—overdrawn,” she added, in case I had missed it. “Your landlord sued you for dodo-related tenancy violations and won five thousand pounds. Since you weren’t here, we upped your credit limit when he demanded payment. Then we raised the limit again to pay for the additional interest.”

  “How very thoughtful of you.”

  “Thank you. Goliath First National Friendly always aims to please.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go with the ‘wealthy aunt’ scenario?” asked Hamlet, being no help at all.

  “No. Shhh.”

  “We haven’t had a single deposit from you for nearly two and a half years,” continued the bank clerk.

  “I’ve been away.”

  “Prison?”

  “No. So the rest of my overdraft is . . . ?”

  “Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you haven’t got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn’t reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you hadn’t received, further letters asking for a response because we have an odd sense of humor—you know how it all adds up! Can we expect a check in the near future?”

  “Not really. Um . . . any chance of raising my credit limit?”

  The cashier arched an eyebrow. “I can get you an appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we can send expensive letters demanding money?”

  I gave them Mum’s address and made an appointment to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several closing-down sales—one of which I had witnessed with Miss Havisham.

  Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have avoided that whole stupid sock episode in Lake Wobegon Days.

  “Okay, I give up,” said Hamlet quite suddenly. “How does it all turn out?”

  “How does what all turn out?”

  He spread his arms out wide.

  “All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the small dodo, that SuperHoop thing and the big company—what’s it called again?”

  “Goliath?”

  “Right. How does it all turn out?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. Out here our lives are pretty much an unknown quantity.”

  Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept. “How do you live here not knowing what the future might bring?”

  “That’s part of the fun. The pleasure of anticipation.”

  “There is no pleasure in anticipation,” said Hamlet glumly. “Except perhaps,” he added, “in killing that old fool Polonius.”

  “My point exactly,” I replied. “Where you come from, events are preordained and everything that happens to you has some sort of relevance further on in the story.”

  “It’s clear you haven’t read Hamlet for a—LOOK OUT!”

  Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small steamroller—the size that works on sidewalks and paths—bore rapidly down upon us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.

  “Are you okay?” asked Hamlet, helping me to my feet.

  “I’m fine—thanks to you.”

  “Goodness!” said a workman, running up to us and turning a valve to shut off the roller. “Are you all right?”

  “Not hurt in the least. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the workman, scratching his head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner of the shop didn’t look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about what he could charge to insurance.

  “You see?” I said to Hamlet as we walked away.

  “What?”

  “This is exactly what I mean. A lot happens in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from now; as it is it means nothing—after all, not every incident in life has a meaning.”

  “Tell that to the scholars who study me,” Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before adding, “If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Overlong, detailed to the point of distraction—and ultimately, without a major resolution.”

  “Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “that’s exactly what we like about it.”

  We reached the SpecOps Building. It was of a sensible Germanic design built during the occupation, and it was here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with Acheron Hades’ plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of Jane Eyre. Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.

  “Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?”

  “Please.”

  We walked into the Café Goliathe opposite. The same one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour before he was eradicated.