“A sequel?” repeated Jack with a sort of dreamy look in his eyes. “You mean—a Jack Spratt series?”

  “Who knows”—I shrugged—“maybe even one day—a boxed set.”

  His eyes gleamed and he stood up. “A boxed set,” he whispered, staring into the middle distance. “It’s up to me, isn’t it?” he said in a slow voice.

  “Yes. Change yourself, change the book—and soon, before it’s too late—make the novel into something the Book Inspectorate will want to read.”

  “Okay,” he said at last, “beginning with the next chapter. Instead of arguing with Briggs about letting a suspect go without charging them, I’ll take my ex-wife out to lunch.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” I affirmed. “Not tomorrow or next chapter or even next page or paragraph—you’re going to change now.”

  “We can’t! There are at least nine more pages while you and I discuss the state of the body with Dr. Singh and go through all that boring forensic stuff.”

  “Leave it to me. We’ll jump back a paragraph or two. Ready?”

  He nodded and we moved to the top of the previous page, just as Briggs was leaving.

  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.”

  “What else?”

  “Your wife phoned.”

  “She . . . did?”

  “Yes. Said it was important.”

  “I’ll drop by this evening.”

  “She said it was very urgent,” stressed Jones.

  “Hold the fort for me, would you?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Jack walked from the crime scene leaving Jones with Dr. Singh.

  “Right,” said Mary. “What have we got?”

  We ran the scene together, Dr. Singh telling me all the information that she was more used to relating to Jack. She went into a huge amount of detail regarding the time of death and a more-than-graphic explanation of how she thought it had happened. Ballistics, trajectory, blood-splatter patterns, you name it. I was really quite glad when she finished and the chapter moved off to Jack’s improvised meeting with his ex-wife.

  As soon as we were done, Dr. Singh turned to me and said in an anxious tone, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Me neither,” replied the quasi pathologist. “You know that long speech I made just now about postmortem bruising, angles of bullet entry and discoloration of body tissues?”

  “Yes?”

  She leaned closer. “Didn’t understand a word. Eight pages of technical dialogue and haven’t the foggiest what I’m talking about. I only trained at Generic college as a mother figure in domestic potboilers. If I’d known I was to be drafted to this, I would have spent a few hours in a Cornwell. Do you have any clues as to what I’m actually meant to do?”

  I rummaged in her bag and brought out a large thermometer.

  “Try this.”

  “What do I do with it?”

  I pointed.

  “You’re kidding me,” replied Dr. Singh, aghast.

  3.

  Three Witches, Multiple Choice and Sarcasm

  Jurisfiction is the name given to the policing agency that works inside books. Under a remit from the Council of Genres and working with the intelligence-gathering capabilities of Text Grand Central, the Prose Resource Operatives at Jurisfiction comprise a mixed bag of characters, most drawn from the ranks of fiction but some, like Harris Tweed and myself, from the real world. Problems in fiction are noticed by “spotters” employed at Text Grand Central, and from there relayed to the Bellman, a ten-yearly elected figure who runs Jurisfiction under strict guidelines laid down by the Council of Genres. Jurisfiction has its own code of conduct, technical department, canteen and resident washerwoman.

  THURSDAY NEXT,

  The Jurisfiction Chronicles

  DR. SINGH DIDN’T waste the opportunity, and she gathered together several other trainee pathologists she knew from the Well. They all sat spellbound as I recounted the limited information I possessed. Exhausted, I managed to escape four hours later. It was evening when I finally got home. I opened the door to the flying boat and kicked off my shoes. Pickwick rushed up to greet me and tugged excitedly at my trouser leg. I followed her through to the living room and then had to wait while she remembered where she had left her egg. We finally found it rolled behind the hi-fi and I congratulated her, despite there being no change in its appearance.

  I returned to the kitchen. ibb and obb had been studying Mrs. Beeton’s all day, and ibb was attempting steak diane with french fries. Landen used to cook that for me and I suddenly felt lonesome and small, so far from home I might well be on Pluto. obb was making the final touches to a fully decorated four-tier wedding cake.

  “Hello, ibb,” I said, “how’s it going?”

  “How’s what going?” replied the Generic in that annoying literal way that they spoke. “And I’m obb.”

  “Sorry—obb.”

  “Why are you sorry? Have you done something?”

  “Never mind.”

  I sat down at the table and opened a package that had arrived. It was from Miss Havisham and contained the Jurisfiction Standard Entrance Exam. I had joined Jurisfiction almost by accident—I had wanted to get Landen out of “The Raven” and getting involved with the agency seemed to be the best way to learn. But Jurisfiction had grown on me and I now felt strongly about maintaining the solidity of the written word. It was the same job I had undertaken at SpecOps, just from the other side. But it struck me that, on this occasion, Miss Havisham was wrong—I was not yet ready for full membership.

  The hefty tome consisted of five hundred questions, nearly all of them multiple choice. I noticed that the exam was self-invigilating; as soon as I opened the book a clock in the top left-hand corner started to count down from two hours. The questions were mostly about literature, which I had no problem with. Jurisfiction law was trickier and I would probably need to consult with Miss Havisham. I made a start and ten minutes later was pondering question forty-six: Which of the following poets never used the outlawed word majestic in their work? when there was a knock at the door accompanied by a peal of thunder.

  I closed the exam book and opened the door. On the jetty were three ugly, old crones dressed in filthy rags. They had bony features, rough and warty skin, and they launched into a well-rehearsed act as soon as the door opened.

  “When shall we three meet again?” said the first witch. “In Thurber, Wodehouse, or in Greene?”

  “When the hurly-burly’s done,” added the second, “when the story’s thought and spun!”

  There was a pause until the second witch nudged the third.

  “That will be Eyre the set of sun,” she said quickly.

  “Where the place?”

  “Within the text.”

  “There to meet with MsNext!”

  They stopped talking and I stared, unsure of what I was meant to do.

  “Thank you very much,” I replied, but the first witch snorted disparagingly and wedged her foot in the door as I tried to close it.

  “Prophecies, kind lady?” she asked as the other two cackled hideously.

  “I really don’t think so,” I answered, pushing her foot away, “perhaps another time.”

  “All hail, MsNext! Hail to thee, citizen of Swindon!”

  “Really, I’m sorry—and I’m out of change.”

  “All hail, MsNext, hail to thee, full Jurisfiction agent, thou shalt be!”

  “If you don’t go,” I began, starting to get annoyed, “I’ll—”

  “All hail, MsNext, thou shalt be Bellman thereafter!”

  “Sure I will. Go on, clear off, you imperfect speakers—bother someone else with your nonsense!”

  “A shilling!” said the first. “And we shall tell you more—or less, as you please.”

  I closed the door despite their grumbling and went back to my multiple choice. I’d only answered question forty-nine: Which of the following is not a gerund? when there was another knock at the door.

  “Blast!” I muttered, getting up and striking my ankle on the table leg. It was the three witches again.

  “I thought I told you—”

  “Sixpence, then,” said the chief hag, putting out a bony hand.

  “No,” I replied firmly, rubbing my ankle, “I never buy anything at the door.”

  They all started up then: “Thrice to thine and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up—”

  I shut the door again. I wasn’t superstitious and had far more important things to worry about. I had just sat down again, sipped at my tea and answered the next question: Who wrote Toad of Toad Hall? when there was another rap at the door.

  “Right,” I said to myself, marching across the room, “I’ve had it with you three.”

  I pulled open the door and said, “Listen here, hag, I’m really not interested, nor ever will be in your . . . Oh.”

  I stared. Granny Next. If it had been Admiral Lord Nelson himself I don’t think I could have been more surprised.

  “Gran!?!” I exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  She was dressed in her usual outfit of spectacular blue gingham, from her dress to her overcoat and even her hat, shoes and bag.

  I hugged her. She smelt of Bodmin for Women. She hugged me in return in that sort of fragile way that very elderly people do. And she was elderly—108, at the last count.

  “I have come to look after you, young Thursday,” she announced.

  “Er—thank you, Gran,” I replied, wondering quite how she had got here.

  “You’re going to have a baby and need attending to,” she added grandly. “My suitcase is on the jetty and you’re going to have to pay the taxi.”

  “Of course,” I muttered, going outside and finding a yellow TransGenre Taxi.

  “How much?” I asked the cabby.

  “Seventeen and six.”

  “Oh, yes?” I replied sarcastically. “Took the long way round?”

  “Trips to Horror, Bunyan and the Well cost double,” said the cabbie. “Pay up or I’ll make sure Jurisfiction hears about it. I had that Heathcliff in the back of my cab once.”

  “Really?” I replied, handing him a pound.

  He patted his pockets. “Sorry, have you got anything smaller? I don’t carry much change.”

  “Keep it,” I told him as his footnoterphone muttered something about a party of ten wanting to get out of Florence in The Decameron. I got a receipt and he melted from view. I picked up Gran’s suitcase and hauled it into the Sunderland.

  “This is ibb and obb,” I explained. “Generics billeted with me. The one on the left is ibb.”

  “I’m obb.”

  “Sorry. That’s ibb and that’s obb. This is my grandmother.”

  “Hello,” said Granny Next, gazing at my two houseguests.

  “You’re very old,” observed ibb.

  “One hundred and eight,” announced Gran proudly. “Do you two do anything but stare?”

  “Not really,” said ibb.

  “Plock,” said Pickwick, who had popped her head round the door, ruffled her feathers excitedly and rushed up to greet Gran, who always seemed to have a few spare marshmallows about her.

  “What’s it like being old?” asked ibb, who was peering closely at the soft, pink folds in Gran’s skin.

  “Death’s adolescence,” replied Gran. “But you know the worst part?”

  ibb and obb shook their heads.

  “I’m going to miss my funeral by three days.”

  “Gran!” I scolded. “You’ll confuse them—they tend to take things literally.”

  It was too late.

  “Miss your own funeral?” muttered ibb, thinking hard. “How is that possible?”

  “Think about it, ibb,” said obb. “If she lived three days longer, she’d be able to speak at her own funeral—get it?”

  “Of course,” said ibb, “stupid of me.”

  And they went into the kitchen, talking about Mrs. Beeton’s book and the best way to deal with amorous liaisons between the scullery maid and the bootboy—it must have been an old edition.

  “When’s supper?” asked Gran, looking disdainfully at the interior of the flying boat. “I’m absolutely famished—but nothing tougher than suet, mind. The gnashers aren’t what they were.”

  I delicately helped her out of her gingham coat and sat her down at the table. Steak diane would be like eating railway sleepers to her, so I started to make an omelette.

  “Now, Gran,” I said, cracking some eggs into a bowl, “I want you to tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “I need to be here to remind you of things you might forget, young Thursday.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as Landen. They eradicated my husband, too, and the one thing I needed was someone to help me through it, so that’s what I’m here to do for you.”

  “I’m not going to forget him, Gran!”

  “Yes,” she agreed in a slightly peculiar way, “I’m here to make sure of it.”

  “That’s the why,” I persisted, “but what about the how?”

  “I, too, used to do the occasional job for Jurisfiction in the old days. A long time ago, mind, but it was just one of many jobs that I did in my life—and not the strangest, either.”

  “What was?” I asked, knowing in my heart that I shouldn’t really be asking.

  “Well, I was God Emperor of the Universe, once,” she answered in the same manner to which she might have admitted to going to the pictures, “and being a man for twenty-four hours was pretty weird.”

  “Yes, I expect it was.”

  ibb laid the table and we sat down to eat ten minutes later. As Gran sucked on her omelette I tried to make conversation with ibb and obb. The trouble was, neither of them had the requisite powers of social communication to assimilate anything from speech other than the bald facts it contained. I tried a joke I had heard from Bowden, my partner at SpecOps, about an octopus and a set of bagpipes. But when I delivered the punch line, they both stared at me.

  “Why would the bagpipes be dressed in pajamas?” asked ibb.

  “It wasn’t,” I replied, “it was the tartan. That’s just what the octopus thought they were.”

  “I see,” said obb, not seeing at all. “Would you mind going over it again?”

  “That’s it,” I said resolutely, “you’re going to have a personality if it kills me.”

  “Kill you?” inquired ibb in all seriousness. “Why would it kill you?”

  I thought carefully. There had to be somewhere to begin. I clicked my fingers.

  “Sarcasm,” I said. “We’ll start with that.”

  They both looked at me blankly.

  “Well,” I began, “sarcasm is closely related to irony and implies a twofold view—a literal meaning, yet a wholly different intention from what is said. For instance, if you were lying to me about who ate all the anchovies I left in the cupboard, and you had eaten them, you might say, ‘It wasn’t me,’ and I would say, ‘Sure it wasn’t,’ meaning I’m sure it was but in an ironic or sarcastic manner.”

  “What’s an anchovy?” asked ibb.

  “A small and very salty fish.”

  “I see,” replied ibb. “Does sarcasm work with other things or is it only fish?”

  “No, the stolen anchovies was only by way of an example. Now you try.”

  “An anchovy?”

  “No, you try some sarcasm.”

  They continued to look at me blankly.

  I sighed. “Like trying to nail jelly to the wall,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Plock,” said Pickwick in her sleep as she gently keeled over. “Plocketty-plock.”

  “Sarcasm is better explained through humor,” put in Gran, who had been watching my efforts with interest. “You know that Pickwick isn’t too clever?”

  Pickwick stirred in her sleep where she had fallen, resting on her head with her claws in the air.

  “Yes, we know that,” replied ibb and obb, who were nothing if not observant.

  “Well, if I were to say that it is easier to get yeast to perform tricks than Pickwick, I’m using mild sarcasm to make a joke.”

  “Yeast?” queried ibb. “But yeast has no intelligence.”

  “Exactly,” replied Gran. “So I am making a sarcastic observation that Pickwick has less brainpower than yeast. You try.”

  The Generic thought long and hard.

  “So,” said ibb slowly, “how about . . . Pickwick is so clever she sits on the TV and stares at the sofa?”

  “It’s a start,” said Gran.

  “And,” added ibb, gaining confidence by the second, “if Pickwick went on Mastermind, she’d do best to choose ‘dodo eggs’ as her specialist subject.”

  obb was getting the hang of it, too. “If a thought crossed her mind, it would be the shortest journey on record.”

  “Pickwick has a brother at Oxford. In a jar.”

  “All right, that’s enough sarcasm,” I said quickly. “I know Pickwick won’t win ‘Brain of BookWorld’ but she’s a loyal companion.”

  I looked across at Pickwick, who slid off the sofa and landed with a thump on the floor. She woke up and started plocking loudly at the sofa, coffee table, rug—in fact, anything close by—before calming down, climbing on top of her egg and falling asleep again.

  “You did well, guys,” I said. “Another time we’ll tackle subtext.”

  ibb and obb went to their room soon afterwards, discussing how sarcasm was related to irony, and whether irony itself could be generated in laboratory conditions. Gran and I chatted about home. Mother was very well, it seemed, and Joffy and Wilbur and Orville were as mad as ever. Gran, conscious of my dealings with Yorrick Kaine in the past, reported that Kaine had returned soon after the episode with the Glatisant at Volescamper Towers, lost his seat in the House and been back at the helm of his newspaper and publishing company soon after. I knew he was fictional and a danger to my world but couldn’t see what to do about it from here. We talked into the night about the BookWorld, Landen, eradications and having children. Gran had had three herself so gleefully told me all the stuff they don’t tell you when you sign on the dotted line.