I went downstairs and explained to obb the rudiments of cooking, which were as alien to it as having a name. Fortunately I found an old copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Complete Housekeeper, which I told obb to study, half-jokingly, as research. Three hours later it had roasted a perfect leg of lamb with all the trimmings. I had discovered one thing about Generics already: dull and uninteresting they may be—but they learn fast.

  2.

  Inside Caversham Heights

  Book/YGIO/1204961/: Title: Caversham Heights. UK, 1976, 90,000 words. Genre: Detective fiction. Book Operating System: BOOK V7.2. Grammasite Infestation: 1 (one) nesting pair of Parenthiums (protected). Plot: Routine detective thriller with stereotypical detective Jack Spratt. Set in Reading (England), the plot (such as it is) revolves around a drug czar hoping to muscle in on Reading’s seedy underworld. Routine and unremarkable, Caversham Heights represents all the worst aspects of amateur writing. Flat characters, unconvincing police work and a pace so slow that snails pass it in the night. Recommendation: Unpublishable. Suggest book to be broken up for salvage at soonest available opportunity. Current Status: Awaiting Council of Genres Book Inspectorate’s report before ordering demolition.

  Library Subbasement Gazetteer,

  1982, volume CLXI

  I DISCUSSED THE RUDIMENTS of breakfast with ibb and obb the following morning. I told them that cereal traditionally came before the bacon and eggs, but that toast and coffee had no fixed place within the meal; they had problems with the fact that marmalade was almost exclusively the preserve of breakfast, and I was just trying to explain the technical possibilities of dippy egg fingers when a copy of The Toad dropped on the mat. The only news story was about some sort of drug-related gang warfare in Reading. It was part of the plot in Caversham Heights and reminded me that sooner or later—and quite possibly sooner—I would be expected to take on the mantle of Mary as part of the Character Exchange Program. I had another careful read of the précis, which gave me a good idea of the plot chapter by chapter, but no precise dialogue or indication as to what I should be doing, or when. I didn’t have to wonder very long as a knock at the door revealed an untidy man wearing a hat named Wyatt.

  “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, apologizing for the misrelated grammatical construction almost immediately, “Wyatt is my name, not the hat’s.”

  “I kind of figured that,” I replied.

  Wooden and worn with use, he was holding a clipboard.

  “Oh, bother!” he said in the manner of someone who had just referred to George Eliot as “he” in a room full of English professors. “I’ve done it again!”

  “Really, I don’t mind,” I repeated. “What can I do for you?”

  “You’re very kind. As a Character Exchange Program member, I would like to ask you to get yourself into Reading.” He stopped and his shoulders sagged. “No, I’m not the Character Exchange Program member—you are. And you need to get into Reading.”

  “Sure. Do you have an address for me?”

  Dog-eared and grubby, he handed me a note from his clipboard.

  “Don’t worry,” I said before he could apologize again, “I understand.”

  His condition was almost certainly permanent, and since I didn’t seem to care that much, he regained some confidence.

  “Despite the ten-year demolition order hanging over us,” he continued, “you should try and give it your best. The last Character Exchanger didn’t take it seriously at all. Had to send him dusty and covered in asphalt on the road out of here.”

  He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  “I won’t let you down,” I assured him.

  He thanked me, and small, brown and furry, the man with the hat named Wyatt raised it and vanished.

  I took Mary’s car and drove into Reading across the M4, which seemed as busy as it was back home; I used the same road myself when traveling between Swindon and London. Only when I was approaching the junction at the top of Burghfield road did I realize there were, at most, only a half dozen or so different vehicles on the roads. The vehicle that first drew my attention to this strange phenomenon was a large, white truck with Dr. Spongg Footcare Products painted on the side. I saw three in under a minute, all with an identical driver dressed in a blue boilersuit and flat cap. The next most obvious vehicle was a red VW Beetle driven by a young lady, then a battered blue Morris Marina with an elderly man at the wheel. By the time I had drawn up outside the scene of Caversham Heights’ first murder, I had counted forty-three white trucks, twenty-two red Beetles and sixteen identically battered Morris Marinas, not to mention several green Ford Escorts and a brace of white Chevrolets. It was obviously a limitation within the text and nothing more, so I hurriedly parked, read Mary’s notes again to make sure I knew what I had to do, took a deep breath and walked across to the area that had been taped off. A few uniformed police officers were milling around. I showed my pass and ducked under the Police: Do Not Cross tape.

  The yard was shaped as an oblong, fifteen feet wide and about twenty feet long, surrounded by a high redbrick wall with crumbling mortar. A large, white SOCO tent was over the scene, and a forensic pathologist, dictating notes into a tape recorder, was kneeling next to a well-described corpse.

  “Hullo!” said a jovial voice close by. I turned to see a large man in a mackintosh grinning at me.

  “Detective Sergeant Mary,” I told him obediently. “Transferred here from Basingstoke.”

  “You don’t have to worry about all that yet.” He smiled. “The story is with Jack at the moment—he’s meeting Officer Tibbit on the street outside. My name’s DCI Briggs and I’m your friendly yet long-suffering boss in this little caper. Crusty and prone to outbursts of temper yet secretly supportive, I will have to suspend Jack at least once before the story is over.”

  “How do you do?” I spluttered.

  “Excellent!” said Briggs, shaking my hand gratefully. “Mary told me you’re with Jurisfiction. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any news about when the Council of Genres Book Inspectorate will be in?” asked Briggs. “It would be a help to know. You’ve heard about the demolition order, I take it?”

  “Council of Genres?” I echoed, trying not to make my ignorance show. “I’m sorry. I’ve not spent that much time in the BookWorld.”

  “An Outlander?” replied Briggs, eyes wide in wonderment. “Here, in Caversham Heights?”

  “Yes, I’m—”

  “Tell me, what do waves look like when they crash on the shore?”

  “Who’s an Outlander?” echoed the pathologist, a middle-aged Indian woman who suddenly leapt to her feet and stared at me intently. “You?”

  “Y-es,” I admitted.

  “I’m Dr. Singh,” explained the pathologist, shaking my hand vigorously. “I’m matter-of-fact, apparently without humor, like cats and people who like cats, don’t suffer fools, yet on occasion I do exhibit a certain warmth. Tell me, do you think I’m anything like a real pathologist?”

  “Of course,” I answered, trying to think of her brief appearances in the book.

  “You see,” she went on with a slightly melancholic air, “I’ve never seen a real pathologist and I’m really not sure what I’m meant to do.”

  “You’re doing fine,” I assured her.

  “What about me?” asked Briggs. “Do you think I need to develop more as a character? Am I like all those real people you rub shoulders with, or am I a bit one-dimensional?”

  “Well—”

  “I knew it!” he cried unhappily. “It’s the hair, isn’t it? Do you think it should be shorter? Longer? What about having a bizarre character trait? I’ve been learning the trombone—that would be unusual, yes?”

  “Someone said there was an Outlander in the book!” interrupted a uniformed officer, one of a pair who had just walked into the yard. “I’m Unnamed Police Officer No. 1; this is my colleague, Unnamed Police Officer No. 2. Can I ask a question about the Outland?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s the point of alphabet soup?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure you’re from the Outland?” he asked suspiciously. “Then tell me this: Why is there no singular for scampi?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not from the Outland,” said Unnamed Police Officer No. 1 sadly. “You should be ashamed of yourself, lying and raising our hopes like that!”

  “Very well,” I replied, covering my eyes, “I’ll prove it to you. Speak to me in turn but leave off your speech designators.”

  “Okay,” said Unnamed Police Officer No. 1. “Who is this talking?”

  “And who is this?” added Dr. Singh.

  “I said leave off your speech designators. Try again.”

  “It’s harder than you think,” sighed Unnamed Police Officer No. 1. “Okay, here goes.”

  There was a pause.

  “Which one of us is talking now?”

  “And who am I?”

  “Mrs. Singh first, Unnamed Police Officer No. 1 second. Was I correct?”

  “Amazing!” murmured Mrs. Singh. “How do you do that?”

  “I can recognize your voices. I have a sense of smell, too.”

  “No kidding? Do you know anyone in publishing?”

  “None who would help. My husband is, or was, an author, but his contacts wouldn’t know me from Eve at present. I’m a SpecOps officer; I don’t have much to do with contemporary fiction.”

  “SpecOps?” queried UPO No. 2. “What’s that?”

  “We’re going to be scrapped, you know,” interrupted Briggs, “unless we can get a publisher.”

  “We could be broken down into words,” added UPO No. 1 in a hushed tone, “cast into the Text Sea; and I have a wife and two kids—or at least, in my backstory I do.”

  “I can’t help you,” I told them, “I’m not even—”

  “Places, please!” yelled Briggs so suddenly I jumped.

  The pathologist and the two unnamed officers both hurried back to their places and awaited Jack, whom I could hear talking to someone in the house.

  “Good luck,” murmured Briggs from the side of his mouth as he motioned me to sit on a low wall. “I’ll prompt you if you dry.”

  “Thanks.”

  DCI Briggs was sitting on a low wall with a plainclothes policewoman who busied herself taking notes and did not look up. Briggs stood as Jack entered and looked at his watch in an unsubtle way. Jack answered the unasked question in the defensive, which he soon realized was a mistake.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I came here as quick as I could.”

  Briggs grunted and waved a hand in the direction of the corpse.

  “It looks like he died from gunshot wounds,” he said grimly. “Discovered dead at eight forty-seven this morning.”

  “Anything else I need to know?” asked Spratt.

  “A couple of points. First, the deceased is the nephew of crime boss Angel DeFablio, so I wanted someone good with the press in case the media decide to have a bonanza. Second, I’m giving you this job as a favor. You’re not exactly first seed with the seventh floor at the moment. There are some people who want to see you take a fall—and I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Is there a third point?”

  “No one else is available.”

  “I preferred it when there were only two.”

  “Listen, Jack,” Briggs went on. “You’re a good officer, if a little sprung-loaded at times, and I want you on my team without any mishaps.”

  “Is this where I say thank you?”

  “You do. Mop it up nice and neat and give me an initial report as soon as you can. Okay?”

  Briggs nodded in the direction of the young lady who had been waiting patiently.

  “Jack, I want you to meet Thurs—I mean, DS Mary Jones.”

  “Hello,” said Jack.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the young woman.

  “And you. Who are you working with?”

  “Next—I mean Jones is your new detective sergeant,” said Briggs, beginning to sweat for some inexplicable reason. “Transferred with an A-one record from Swindon.”

  “Basingstoke,” corrected Mary.

  “Sorry. Basingstoke.”

  “No offense to DS Jones, sir, but I was hoping for Butcher, Spooner or—”

  “Not possible, Jack,” said Briggs in the tone of voice that made arguing useless. “Well, I’m off. I’ll leave you here with, er—”

  “Jones.”

  “Yes, Jones, so you can get acquainted. Remember, I need that report as soon as possible. Got it?”

  Jack did indeed get it and Briggs departed.

  He shivered in the cold and looked at the young DS again.

  “Mary Jones, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What have you found out so far?”

  She dug in her pocket for a notebook, couldn’t find it, so counted the points off on her fingers instead.

  “Deceased’s name is Sonny DeFablio.”

  There was a pause. Jack didn’t say anything, so Jones, now slightly startled, continued as though he had.

  “Time of death? Too early to tell. Probably three A.M. last night, give or take an hour. We’ll know more when we get the corpse. Gun? We’ll know when . . .”

  “. . . Jack, are you okay?”

  He had sat down wearily and was staring at the ground, head in hands.

  I looked around, but both Dr. Singh, her assistants and the unnamed officers were busily getting on with their parts, unwilling, it seemed, to get embroiled—or perhaps they were just embarrassed.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” muttered Jack.

  “Sir,” I persisted, trying to ad-lib, “do you want to see the body or can we remove it?”

  “What’s the use?” sobbed the crushed protagonist. “No one is reading us; it doesn’t matter.”

  I placed my hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ve tried to make it more interesting,” he sobbed, “but nothing seems to work. My wife won’t speak to me, my job’s on the line, drugs are flooding into Reading and if I don’t make the narrative even remotely readable, then we all get demolished and there’s nothing left at all except an empty hole on the bookshelf and the memory of a might-have-been in the head of the author.”

  “Your wife only left you because all loner, maverick detectives have domestic problems,” I explained. “I’m sure she loves you really.”

  “No, no, she doesn’t,” he sobbed again. “All is lost. Don’t you see? It’s customary for detectives to drive unusual cars and I had a wonderful 1924 Delage-Talbot Supersport. The idea was stolen and replaced with that dreadful Austin Allegro. If any scenes get deleted, we’ll really be stuffed.”

  He paused and looked up at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Thursday Next.”

  He perked up suddenly. “Thursday Next the Outlander Jurisfiction agent apprenticed to Miss Havisham Thursday Next?”

  I nodded. News travels fast in the Well.

  An excited gleam came into his eye. “I read about you in The Word. Tell me, would you have any way of finding out when the Book Inspectorate are due to read our story? I’ve lined up seven three-dimensional B-2 freelancers to come in and give the book a bit of an edge—just for an hour or so. With their help we might be able to hang on to it; all I need to know is the when.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Spratt,” I sighed, “I’m new to all this; what exactly is the Council of Genres?”

  “They look after fictional legislature, dramatic conventions, mainly—a representative from every genre sits on the Council—it is they who decide the conventions of storytelling, and it is they, through the Book Inspectorate, who decide whether an unpublished book is to be kept—or demolished.”

  “Oh,” I replied, realizing that the BookWorld was governed by almost as many rules and regulations as my own, “then I can’t help you.”

  “What about Text Grand Central? Do you know anyone there?”

  TGC I had heard of: amongst other things, they monitored the books in the Great Library and passed any textual problems on to us at Jurisfiction, who were purely a policing agency—but I knew no more than that. I shook my head again.

  “Blast!” he muttered, staring at the ground. “I’ve applied to the C of G for a cross-genre makeover, but you might as well try and speak to the Great Panjandrum himself.”

  “Why don’t you change the book from within?”

  “Change without permission?” he replied, shocked at my suggestion. “That would mean rebellion. I want to get the C of G’s attention, but not like that—we’d be crushed in less than a chapter!”

  “But if the inspectorate haven’t been round yet,” I said slowly, “then how would they even know anything had changed?”

  He thought about this for a moment. “Easier said than done—if I start to fool with the narrative, it might all collapse like a pack of cards!”

  “Then start small, change yourself first. If that works, you can try to bend the plot slightly.”

  “Y-esss,” said Jack slowly, “what did you have in mind?”

  “Give up the booze.”

  “How did you know about my drink problem?”

  “All maverick, loner detectives with domestic strife have drinking problems. Give up the liquor and go home to your wife.”

  “That’s not how I’ve been written,” replied Jack slowly. “I just can’t do it—it would be going against type—the readers—!”

  “Jack, there are no readers. And if you don’t at least try what I suggest, there never will be any readers—or any Jack Spratt. But if things go well, you might even be in . . . a sequel.”