A.J.P. MILLINER,

  The New Whigs: From Humble Beginnings to Fourth Reich

  IT TOOK TWO HOURS for me to convince the police I wasn’t going to tell them anything about Miss Havisham other than her address. Undeterred, they thumbed through a yellowed statute book and eventually charged me with a little-known 1621 law about permissioning a horse and carte to be driven by personn of low moral turpithtude, but with the “horse and carte” bit crossed out and “car” written in instead—so you can see how desperate they were. I would have to go before the magistrate the following week. I started to sneak out of the building to go home, but—

  “So there you are!”

  I turned and hoped my groan wasn’t audible.

  “Hello, Cordelia.”

  “Thursday, are you okay? You look a bit bruised!”

  “I got caught in a Fiction Frenzy.”

  “No more nonsense, now—I need you to meet the couple who won my competition.”

  “Do I have to?”

  Flakk looked at me sternly.

  “It’s very advisable.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “Where are they?”

  “I’m—um—not sure,” said Cordelia, biting her lip and looking at her watch. “They said they’d be here half an hour ago. Can you wait a few minutes?”

  So we stood around for a bit, Cordelia looking at her watch and staring at the front door. After ten minutes of waiting and without her guests turning up, I made my excuses and nipped up to the Litera Tec’s office.

  “Thursday!” said Bowden as I entered. “I told Victor you had the flu. How did you get on in Osaka?”

  “Pretty well, I think. I’ve been inside books without a Prose Portal. I can do it on my own—more or less.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No,” I told him, “Landen’s almost as good as back. I’ve seen The Trial from the inside and have just been at the Swindon Booktastic closing-down sale with Miss Havisham.”

  “What’s she like?” asked Bowden with interest.

  “Odd—and don’t ever let her drive. It seems there is something very like SpecOps-27 inside books—I’ve yet to figure it all out. How have things been out here?”

  He showed me a copy of The Owl. The headline read: New Play by Will Found in Swindon. The Mole had the headline Cardenio Sensation! and The Toad, predictably enough, led with Swindon Croquet Supremo Aubrey Jambe Found in Bath with Chimp.

  “So Professor Spoon authenticated it?”

  “He did indeed,” replied Bowden. “One of us should take the report up to Volescamper this afternoon. This is for you.”

  He handed me the bag of pinkish goo attached to a report from the SpecOps forensic labs. I thanked him and read the analysis of the slime Dad had given me with interest and confusion in equal measures.

  “Sugar, fatty animal protein, calcium, sodium, maltodextrin, carboxy-methyl-cellulose, phenylalanine, complex hydrocarbon compounds and traces of chlorophyll.”

  I flicked to the back of the report but was none the wiser. Forensics had faithfully responded to my request for analysis— but it told me nothing new.

  “What does it mean, Bowd?”

  “Search me, Thursday. They’re trying to match the profile to known chemical compounds, but so far, nothing. Perhaps if you told us where you got it?”

  “I don’t think that would be safe. I’ll drop the Cardenio report in to Volescamper—I’m keen to avoid Cordelia. Tell forensics that the future of the planet depends on them—that should help. I have to know what this pink stuff is.”

  I saw Cordelia waiting for me in the lobby with her two guests, who had finally, it seemed, turned up. Unluckily for them, Spike Stoker had been passing and Cordelia, eager to do something to amuse her competition winners, had obviously asked him to say a few words. The look of frozen jaw-dropping horror on her guests’ faces said it all. I hid my face behind the Cardenio report and left Cordelia to it.

  I blagged a ride in a squad car up to the crumbling but now far busier Vole Towers. The mansion was besieged by the news stations, all keen to report any details regarding the discovery of Cardenio. Two dozen outside broadcast trucks were parked on the weed-infested gravel, all humming with activity. Dishes were trained into the afternoon sky, transmitting the pictures to an airship repeater station that had been routed in to bounce the stories live to the world’s eager viewers. For security, SpecOps- 14 had been drafted in and stood languidly about, idly chatting to one another. Mostly, it seemed, about Aubrey Jambe’s apparent indiscretion with the chimp.

  “Hello, Thursday!” said a handsome young SO-14 agent at the front door. It was annoying; I didn’t recognize him. People I didn’t know hailing me as friends was something that had happened a lot since Landen’s eradication; I supposed I would get used to it.

  “Hello!” I replied to the stranger in an equally friendly tone. “What’s going on?”

  “Yorrick Kaine is heading a press conference.”

  “Really?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. “What’s Cardenio got to do with him?”

  “Hadn’t you heard? Lord Volescamper has given the play to Yorrick Kaine and the Whig party!”

  “Why would,” I asked slowly, smelling a political rat of epic proportions, “Lord Volescamper have anything to do with a minor right-wing pro-Crimean Welsh-hater like Kaine?”

  The SpecOps-14 agent shrugged. “Because he’s a lord and wants to reclaim some lost power?”

  At that moment two other SpecOps agents walked past, and one of them nodded to the young agent at the door and said: “All well, Miles?”

  The dashing young SO-14 agent said that all was well, but he was wrong. All was not well—at least it wasn’t for me. I’d thought I might bump into Miles Hawke eventually, but not unprepared, like this. I stared at him, hoping my shock and surprise wouldn’t show. He had spent time in my flat and knew me a lot better than I knew him. My heart thumped inside my chest and I tried to say something intelligent and witty, but it came out more like:

  “Asterfobulongus?”

  He looked confused and leaned forward slightly.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You seemed a bit upset when I called, Thursday. Is there a problem with our arrangement?”

  I stared at him for a few seconds in numbed silence before mumbling: “No—no, not at all.”

  “Good!” he said. “We must fix a date or two.”

  “Yes,” I said, running on auto-fear, “yes we must. Gottogo— bye.”

  I trotted off before he could say anything else. I paused for breath outside the door to the library. Sooner or later I was going to have to ask him straight out. I decided on the face of it that later suited me better than sooner, so I walked through the heavy steel doors and into the library. Yorrick Kaine and Lord Volescamper were sitting behind a table, and beyond them was Mr. Swaike and two security guards who were standing on either side of the play itself, proudly displayed behind a sheet of bulletproof glass. The press conference was halfway through, and I tapped Lydia Startright—who happened to be standing quite near—on the arm.

  “Hey, Lyds!” I said in a low whisper.

  “Hey, Thursday,” replied the reporter. “I heard you did the initial authentication. How good is it?”

  “Very good,” I replied. “Somewhere on par with The Tempest. What’s happening here?”

  “Volescamper has just officially announced he is giving the play to Yorrick Kaine and the Whigs.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? Hang on, I want to ask a question.”

  Lydia stood up and raised her hand. Kaine pointed at her.

  “What do you propose to do with the play, Mr. Kaine? We understand that there has been talk of offers in the region of a hundred million pounds.”

  “Good question,” replied Yorrick Kaine, getting to his feet. “We in the Whig party thank Lord Volescamper for his kind generosity. I am of the opinion that Cardenio is not for one person or group to exploit, so we at the Whig party propose offering free licenses to perform the play to anyone who wishes to do so.”

  There was an excited babbling from the attendant journalists as they took this in. It was an act of unprecedented generosity, especially from Kaine, but more than that, it was the right thing to do, and the press suddenly warmed towards Yorrick. It was as if Kaine had never suggested the invasion of Wales two years ago or the reduction of the right to vote the year before; I was instantly suspicious.

  There were several more questions about the play and a lot of well-practiced answers from Kaine, who seemed to have reinvented himself as a caring and sharing patriarch and not the extremist of yore. After the press conference had ended, I made my way to the front and approached Volescamper, who looked at me oddly for a moment.

  “The Spoon report,” I told him, handing him the buff-colored file, “about the authentication ... we thought you might want to see it.”

  “What? Of course!”

  Volescamper took the report and glanced at it in a cursory manner before passing it to Kaine, who seemed to show more interest. Kaine didn’t even look at me, but since I obviously wasn’t going to leave like some message girl, Volescamper introduced me.

  “Oh yes! Mr. Kaine, this is Thursday Next, SpecOps-27.”

  Kaine looked up from the report, his manner abruptly changed to one of charm and gushing friendship.

  “Ms. Next, delighted!” he enthused. “I read of your exploits with great interest, and believe me, your intervention improved the narrative of Jane Eyre considerably!”

  I wasn’t impressed by him or his faux charm.

  “Think you can change the Whig party’s fortunes, Mr. Kaine?”

  “The party is undergoing something of a restructuring at present,” replied Kaine, fixing me with a serious stare. “Old ideology has been retired and the party now looks forward to a fresh look at England’s political future. Rule by informed patriarch and voting restricted to responsible property owners is the future, Miss Next—ruling by committee has been the death of common sense for far too long.”

  “And Wales?” I asked. “Where do you stand on Wales these days?”

  “Wales is historically part of greater Britain,” announced Kaine in a slightly more guarded manner. “The Welsh have been flooding the English market with cheap goods, and this has to stop—but I have no plans whatsoever for forced unification.”

  I stared at him for a moment.

  “You have to get in power first, Mr. Kaine.”

  The smile dropped from his face.

  “Thank you for delivering the report, Miss Next,” put in Volescamper hurriedly. “Can I offer you a drink or something before you go?”

  I took the hint and made my way to the front door. I stood and looked at the outside broadcast units thoughtfully. Yorrick Kaine was playing his hand well.

  21.

  Les Artes Modernesde Swindon ’85

  The very Irreverent Joffy Next was the minister for the Global Standard Deity’s first church in England. The GSD had a little bit of all religions, arguing that if there was one God, then He would really have very little to do with all the fluff and muddle down here on the material plane, and a streamlining of the faiths might very well be in His interest. Worshipers came and went as they pleased, prayed according to how they felt most happy, and mingled freely with other GSD members. It enjoyed moderate success, but what God actually thought of it no one ever really knew.

  PROFESSOR M. BLESSINGTON, PR (ret.),

  The Global Standard Deity

  IPAID TO HAVE my car released with a check that I felt sure would bounce, then drove home and had a snack and a shower before driving over to Wanborough and Joffy’s first Les Artes Modernes de Swindon exhibition. Joffy had asked me for a list of my colleagues to boost the numbers, so I fully expected to see some work people there. I had even asked Cordelia, who I had to admit was great fun when not in PR mode. The art exhibition was being held in the Global Standard Deity church at Wanborough and had been opened by Frankie Saveloy a half hour before I arrived. It seemed quite busy as I stepped inside. All the pews had been moved out, and artists, critics, press and potential purchasers milled amongst the eclectic collection of art. I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter, suddenly remembered I shouldn’t be drinking, sniffed at it longingly and put it down again. Joffy, looking very smart indeed in a dinner jacket and dog collar, leapt forward when he saw me, grinning wildly.

  “Hello, Doofus!” he said, hugging me affectionately. “Glad you could make it. Have you met Mr. Saveloy?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he propelled me towards a puffy man who stood quite alone at the side of the room. He introduced me as quickly as he could and then legged it. Frankie Saveloy was the compère of Name That Fruit! and looked more like a toad in real life than he did on TV. I half expected a long sticky tongue to shoot out and capture a wayward fly, but I smiled politely nonetheless.

  “Mr. Saveloy?” I said, offering my hand. He took it in his clammy mitt and held on to it tightly.

  “Delighted!” grunted Saveloy, his eyes flicking to my cleavage. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you to appear on my show—but you’re probably feeling quite honored to meet me, just the same.”

  “Quite the reverse,” I assured him, retrieving my hand forcibly.

  “Ah!” said Saveloy, grinning so much the sides of his mouth almost met his ears and I feared the top of his head might fall off. “I have my Rolls-Royce outside—perhaps you might like to join me for a ride?”

  “I think,” I replied, “that I would sooner eat rusty nails.”

  He didn’t seem in the least put out. He grinned some more and said: “Shame to put such magnificent hooters to waste, Miss Next.”

  I raised my hand to slap him but my wrist was caught by Cordelia Flakk, who had decided to intervene.

  “Up to your old tricks, Frankie?”

  Saveloy grimaced at Cordelia.

  “Damn you, Dilly—out to spoil my fun!”

  “Come on, Thursday, there are plenty of bigger fools to waste your time on than this one.”

  Flakk had dropped the bright pink outfit for a more reserved shade but was still able to fog film at forty yards. She took me by the hand and steered me towards some of the art on display.

  “You have been leading me around the houses a bit, Thursday,” she said testily. “I only need ten minutes of your time with those guests of mine!”

  “Sorry, Dilly. Things have been a bit hectic. Where are they?”

  “Well,” she replied, “they were meant to be both performing in Richard III at the Ritz.”

  “Meant to be?”

  “They were late and missed curtain up. Can you please make time for them both tomorrow?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good.”

  We approached a small scrum where one of the featured artists was presenting his latest work to an attentive audience composed mostly of art critics who all wore collarless black suits and were scribbling notes in their catalogues.

  “So,” said one of the critics, gazing at the piece through his half-moon spectacles, “tell us all about it, Mr. Duchamp2924.”

  “I call it The Id Within,” said the young artist in a quiet voice, avoiding everyone’s gaze and pressing his fingertips together. He was dressed in a long black cloak and had sideburns cut so sharp that if he turned abruptly he would have had someone’s eye out. He continued: “Like life, my piece reflects the many different layers that cocoon and restrict us in society today. The outer layer—reflecting yet counterpoising the harsh exoskeleton we all display—is hard, thin, yet somehow brittle—but beneath this a softer layer awaits, yet of the same shape and almost the same size. As one delves deeper one finds many different shells, each smaller yet no softer than the one before. The journey is a tearful one, and when one reaches the center there is almost nothing there at all, and the similarity to the outer crust is, in a sense, illusory.”

  “It’s an onion,” I said in a loud voice.

  There was a stunned silence. Several of the art critics looked at me, then at Duchamp2924, then at the onion.

  I was sort of hoping the critics would say something like “I’d like to thank you for bringing this to our attention. We nearly made complete dopes of ourselves,” but they didn’t. They just said: “Is this true?”

  To which Duchamp2924 replied that this was true in fact, but untrue representationally, and as if to reinforce the fact he drew a bunch of shallots from within his jacket and added: “I have here another piece I’d like you to see. It’s called The Id Within II (Grouped) and is a collection of concentric three-dimensional shapes locked around a central core . . .”

  Cordelia pulled me away as the critics craned forward with renewed interest.

  “You seem very troublesome tonight, Thursday,” smiled Cordelia. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”

  She introduced me to a young man with a well-tailored suit and well-tailored hair.

  “This is Harold Flex,” announced Cordelia. “Harry is Lola Vavoom’s agent and a big cheese in the film industry.”

  Flex shook my hand gratefully and told me how fantastically humbled he was to be in my presence.

  “Your story needs to be told, Miss Next,” enthused Flex, “and Lola is very enthusiastic.”

  “Oh no,” I said hurriedly, realizing what was coming. “No, no. Not in a million years.”

  “You should hear Harry out, Thursday,” pleaded Cordelia. “He’s the sort of agent who could cut a really good financial deal for you, do a fantastic PR job for SpecOps and make sure your wishes and opinions in the whole story were rigorously listened to.”

  “A movie?” I asked incredulously. “Are you nuts? Didn’t you see The Adrian Lush Show? SpecOps and Goliath would pare the story to the bone!”

  “We’d present it as fiction, Miss Next,” explained Flex. “We’ve even got a title: The Eyre Affair. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re both out of your tiny minds. Excuse me.”

  I left Cordelia and Mr. Flex plotting their next move in low voices and went to find Bowden, who was staring at a dustbin full of paper cups.