“Anything.”

  “Right. I’ll need you to crack the eggs and mix them and get me down the saucepan and . . .”

  I heaved myself up and went through to the small galley, where the fridge was full of food, as always.

  “Where’s ibb and obb?” I asked.

  “Out, I think,” replied Gran. “Would you make us both a cup of tea while you’re up?”

  “Sure. I still can’t remember Landen’s second name, Gran—I’ve been trying all day.”

  Gran came into the galley and sat on a kitchen stool, which happened to be right in the way of everything. She smelt of sherry, but for the life of me I didn’t know where she hid it.

  “But you remember what he looks like?”

  I stopped what I was doing and stared out of the kitchen porthole.

  “Yes,” I replied slowly, “every line, every mole, every expression—but I still remember him dying in the Crimea.”

  “That never happened, my dear. But the fact—I should use a bigger bowl if I were you—you can remember his features proves he’s not gone any more than yesterday. I should use butter and not oil; and if you have any mushrooms, you could chop them up with a bit of onion and bacon—do you have any bacon?”

  “Probably. You still didn’t tell me how you managed to find your way here, Gran.”

  “That’s easily explained. Tell me, did you manage to get a list of the dullest books you could find?”

  Granny Next was 108 years old and was convinced that she couldn’t die until she had read the ten most boring classics. On an earlier occasion I had suggested Fairie Queene, Paradise Lost, Ivanhoe, Moby-Dick, A la recherche du temps perdu, Pamela and A Pilgrim’s Progress. She had read them all and many others but was still with us. Trouble is, “boring” is about as hard to quantify as “pretty,” so I really had to think of the ten books that she would find most boring.

  “What about Silas Marner?”

  “Only boring in parts—like Hard Times. You’re going to have to do a little better than that—and if I were you, I’d use a bigger pan—but on a lower heat.”

  “Right,” I said, beginning to get annoyed, “perhaps you’d like to cook? You’ve done most of the work so far.”

  “No, no,” replied Gran, completely unfazed, “you’re doing fine.”

  There was a commotion at the door and Ibb came in, followed closely by Obb.

  “Congratulations!” I called out.

  “What for?” asked Ibb, who no longer looked identical to Obb. For a start, Obb was at least four inches taller and its hair was darker than Ibb’s, which was beginning to go blond.

  “For becoming capitalized.”

  “Oh, yes,” enthused Ibb, “it’s amazing what a day at St. Tabularasa’s will do for one. Tomorrow we’ll finish our gender training, and by the end of the week we’ll be streamed into character groups.”

  “I want to be a male mentor figure,” said Obb. “Our tutor said that sometimes we can have a choice of what we do and where we go. Are you making supper?”

  “No,” I replied, testing their sarcasm response, “I’m giving my pet egg heat therapy.”

  Ibb laughed—which was a good sign, I thought—and went off with Obb to practice whimsical retorts in case either of them was given a posting as a humorous sidekick.

  “Teenagers,” said Granny Next. “Tch. I better make it a bigger omelette. Take over, would you? I’m going to have a rest.”

  We all sat down to eat twenty minutes later. Obb had brushed its hair into a parting and Ibb was wearing one of Gran’s gingham dresses.

  “Hoping to be female?” I asked, passing Ibb a plate.

  “Yes,” replied Ibb, “but not one like you. I’d like to be more feminine and a bit hopeless—the sort that screams a lot when they get into trouble and has to be rescued.”

  “Really?” I asked, handing Gran the salad. “Why?”

  Ibb shrugged. “I don’t know. I just like the idea of being rescued a lot, that’s all—being carried off in big, strong arms sort of . . . appeals. I thought I could have the plot explained to me a lot, too—but I should have a few good lines of my own, be quite vulnerable, yet end up saving the day due to a sudden flash of idiot savant brilliance.”

  “I think you’ll have no trouble getting a placement,” I sighed, “but you seem quite specific—have you used someone in particular as a model?”

  “Her!” exclaimed Ibb, drawing out a much thumbed Outland copy of Silverscreen from beneath the table. On the cover was none other than Lola Vavoom, being interviewed for the umpteenth time about her husbands, her denial of any cosmetic surgery and her latest film—usually in that order.

  “Gran!” I said sternly. “Did you give Ibb that magazine?”

  “Well—!”

  “You know how impressionable Generics can be! Why didn’t you give her a magazine with Jenny Gudgeon in it? She plays proper women—and can act, too.”

  “Have you seen Ms. Vavoom in My Sister Kept Geese?” replied Gran indignantly. “I think you’d be surprised—she shows considerable range.”

  I thought about Cordelia Flakk and her producer friend Harry Flex wanting Lola to play me in a film. The idea was too awful to contemplate.

  “You were going to tell us about subtext,” said Obb, helping itself to more salad.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied, a distraction from Vavoom a welcome break. “Subtext is the implied action behind the written word. Text tells the reader what the characters say and do but subtext tells us what they mean and feel. The wonderful thing about subtext is that it is common grammar, written in human experience—you can’t understand it without a good working knowledge of people and how they interact. Got it?”

  Ibb and Obb looked at one another. “No.”

  “Okay, let me give you a simple example. At a party, a man gives a woman a drink and she takes it without answering. What’s going on?”

  “She isn’t very polite?” suggested Ibb.

  “Perhaps,” I replied, “but I was really looking for some sort of clue as to their relationship.”

  Obb scratched its head and said, “She can’t speak because, er, she lost her tongue in an industrial accident due to his negligence?”

  “You’re trying too hard. For what reason would someone not necessarily say ‘thank you’ for something?”

  “Because,” said Ibb slowly, “they know one another?”

  “Good. Being handed a drink at a party by your wife, husband, girlfriend or partner, you would as likely as not just take it; if it was from a host to a guest, then you would thank them. Here’s another: there is a couple walking down the road—and she is walking eight paces behind him.”

  “He has longer legs?” suggested Ibb.

  “No.”

  “They’ve broken down?”

  “They’ve had an argument,” said Obb excitedly, “and they live nearby or they would be taking their car.”

  “Could be,” I responded. “Subtext tells you lots of things. Ibb, did you take the last piece of chocolate from the fridge?”

  There was a pause. “No.”

  “Well, because you paused, I know pretty confidently that you did.”

  “Oh!” said Ibb. “I’ll remember that.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  I opened it to reveal Mary’s ex-beau Arnold looking very dapper in a suit and holding a small bunch of flowers. Before he had time to open his mouth, I had closed the door again.

  “Ah!” I said, turning to Ibb and Obb. “This is a good opportunity to study subtext. See if you can figure out what is going on behind our words—and Ibb, please don’t feed Pickwick at the table.”

  I opened the door again, and Arnold, who had started to slink off, came running back.

  “Oh!” he said with mock surprise. “Mary not back yet?”

  “No. In fact, she probably won’t be back for some time. Can I take a message?”

  And I closed the door on his face again.

  “Okay,” I said to Ibb and Obb, “what do you think is going on?”

  “He’s looking for Mary?” suggested Ibb.

  “But he knows she’s gone away,” said Obb. “He must be coming to speak to you, Thursday.”

  “Why?”

  “For a date?”

  “Good. What am I saying to him?”

  Ibb and Obb thought hard. “If you didn’t want to see him, you’d have told him to go away, so you might be the tiniest bit interested.”

  “Excellent!” I told them. “Let’s see what happens next.”

  I opened the door again to a confused-looking Arnold, who broke into a wide smile.

  “Well,” he said, “no message for Mary—it’s just—we had planned to see Willow Lodge and the Limes this evening . . .”

  I turned to Ibb and Obb, who shook their heads. They didn’t believe it, either.

  “Well,” said Arnold slowly, “. . . perhaps you might like to come with me to the concert?”

  I shut the door again.

  “He pretended to have the idea about going to see Willow Lodge tonight,” said Ibb slowly and more confidently, “when in fact I think he had it planned all along that way. I think he fancies you big time.”

  I opened the door again.

  “I’m sorry, no,” I told him hastily, “happily married.”

  “It’s not a date,” exclaimed Arnold quickly, “just a lift to a concert. Here, take the ticket anyway. I’ve no one else to give it to; if you don’t want to go, just bin it.”

  I shut the door again.

  “Ibb’s wrong,” said Obb, “he really fancies you—but he’s blown it by being too desperate—it would be hard for you to respect someone who would almost start begging.”

  “Not bad,” I replied, “let’s see how it turns out.”

  I opened the door again and stared into Arnold’s earnest eyes.

  “You miss her, don’t you?”

  “Miss who?” asked Arnold, seemingly nonchalant.

  “Denial of love!” yelled Ibb and Obb from behind me. “He doesn’t really fancy you at all—he’s in love with Mary and wants a date on the rebound!”

  Arnold looked suspicious. “What’s going on?”

  “Subtext classes,” I explained, “sorry for being rude. Do you want to come in for a coffee?”

  “Well, I should be going really—”

  “Playing hard to get!” hooted Ibb, and Obb added quickly, “The balance of power has tipped in his favor because you’ve been rude to him with all that door nonsense, and now you’re going to have to insist that he come in for coffee, even if that means being nicer to him than you originally intended!”

  “Are they always like this?” inquired Arnold, stepping inside.

  “They learn quick,” I observed. “That’s Ibb and that’s Obb. Ibb and Obb, this is Arnold.”

  “Hullo!” said Arnold, thinking for a moment. “Do you Generics want to go and see Willow Lodge and the Limes?”

  They looked at one another for a moment, realized they were sitting just that little bit too close and moved apart.

  “Do you?” said Ibb.

  “Well, only if you want to—”

  “I’m easy—it’s your decision.”

  “Well y-es, I’d really like to.”

  “Then let’s go—unless you’ve made other plans—?”

  “No, no, I haven’t.”

  They got up, took the tickets from Arnold and were out the door in a flash.

  I laughed and went though to the galley.

  “Who’s the elderly woman?” asked Arnold.

  “It’s my Gran,” I replied, switching on the kettle and getting out the coffee.

  “Is she—you know?”

  “Goodness me, no! She’s only asleep. She’s one hundred and eight.”

  “Really? Why is she dressed in this dreadful blue gingham?”

  “Has been for as long as I can remember. She came here to make sure I didn’t forget my husband. Sorry. That makes me sound as though I’m laboring the point, doesn’t it?”

  “Listen, don’t worry. I didn’t mean to come over all romantic just then. But, Mary, well, she’s quite something, you know—and I’m not just in love with her because I was written that way. This one’s for real. Like Nelson and Emma, Bogart and Bacall—”

  “Finch Hatton and Blixen. Yes, I know. I’ve been there.”

  “Denys was in love with Baron Blixen?”

  “Karen Blixen.”

  “Oh.”

  He sat down and I placed a coffee in front of him.

  “So, tell me about your husband.”

  “Hah!” I said, smiling. “You don’t want me to bore you about Landen.”

  “It’s not boring. You listen to me when I hark on about Mary.”

  I stirred my coffee absently, running through my memories of Landen to make sure they were all there. Gran mumbled something about lobsters in her sleep.

  “It must have been a hard decision to come and hide out here,” said Arnold quietly. “I don’t imagine Thursdays generally do that sort of thing.”

  “You’re right, they don’t. But sometimes falling back and regrouping is not the same as running away.”

  “Tactical withdrawal?”

  “Right. What would you do to get together with Mary again?”

  “Anything.”

  “And I with Landen. I will get him back—just not quite yet. But the strange thing is,” I added slightly wistfully, “when he comes back, he won’t even know he’d been gone—it’s not as though he’s waiting for me to reactualize him.”

  We chatted for about an hour. Arnold told me about the Well and I talked about the Outland. He was just trying to get me to repeat “irrelevant benevolent elephant” when Gran woke up with a yell shouting, “The French! The French!” and had to be calmed down with a glass of warm whiskey before I put her to bed.

  “I’d better be going,” said Arnold. “Mind if I drop round again?”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “That would be nice.”

  I went to bed after that and was still awake when Ibb and Obb returned from the concert. They were giggling and made a noisy cup of tea before retiring. I lay back and tried to sleep, hoping that I would dream of being back at our house, the one that Landen and I shared when we were married. Failing that, on holiday somewhere. Failing that, when we first met—and if that wasn’t available, an argument—and lastly, anything with Landen in it at all. Aornis had other ideas.

  15.

  Landen Parke-Somebody

  Before Aornis Hades, the existence of mnemonomorphs was suspected only to SO-5, who, through deceit, idleness or forgetfulness, never told anyone else. The files on mnemonomorphs are kept in eight different locations and updated automatically between each location every week. An ability to control entropy does not necessarily go with the skill to alter memories; indeed, Aornis has been the only entity (thus far that we know about) who can do such a thing. As Miss Next demonstrated between 1986–87, mnemonomorphs are not without their Achilles’ heel. There is one question we would all like answered about Aornis, however, since no physical evidence of her remains: Was she real, or just a bad memory?

  BLAKE LAMME, (EX-SO-5)

  Remember Them? A Study of Mnemonomorphs

  DEAR, SWEET THURSDAY!” muttered a patronizing voice that was chillingly familiar.

  I opened my eyes. I was on the roof of Thornfield Hall, Rochester’s house in Jane Eyre. It was the time and place of my final showdown with Acheron Hades. The old house was on fire and I could feel the roof growing hot beneath my feet. I coughed in the smoke and felt my eyes begin to smart. Next to me was Edward Rochester, cradling a badly wounded hand. Acheron had already thrown Rochester’s poor wife, Bertha, over the parapet and was now preparing to finish us both off.

  “Sweet madness, eh?” Acheron laughed. “Jane is with her cousins; the narrative is with her. And I have the manual!” He waved it at me, deposited it in his pocket and picked up his gun. “Who’s first?”

  I ignored Hades and looked around. The patronizing “Dear, sweet Thursday!” voice had not been his—it had belonged to Aornis. She was wearing the same designer clothes as when I last saw her—she was only my memory of her, after all.

  “Hey!” said Acheron. “I’m talking to you!”

  I turned and dutifully fired, and Hades caught the approaching bullet—as he had when this had happened for real. He opened his fist; the slug was flattened into a small lead disk. He smiled and a shower of sparks flew up behind him.

  But I wasn’t so interested in Acheron this time around.

  “Aornis!” I shouted. “Show yourself, coward!”

  “No coward, I!” said Aornis, stepping from behind a large chimney piece.

  “What are you doing to me?” I demanded angrily, pointing my gun at her. She didn’t seem to be in the least put out—in fact, she seemed more concerned with preventing the dirt from the roof soiling her suede shoes.

  “Welcome”—she laughed—“to the museum of your mind!”

  The roof at Thornfield vanished and was replaced by the interior of the abandoned church where Spike and I were about to do battle with the Supreme Evil Being that was stuck in his head. It had happened for real a few weeks ago; the memories were still fresh—it was all chillingly lifelike.

  “I am the curator in this museum,” said Aornis as we moved again, to the dining room at home when I was eight, a small girl with pigtails and as precocious as they come. My father—before his eradication, of course—was carving the roast and telling me that if I kept on being a nuisance, I would be made to go to my room.

  “Familiar to you?” asked Aornis. “I can call on any exhibit I want. Do you remember this?”

  And we were back on the banks of the Thames, during my father’s abortive attempt to rescue the two-year-old Landen. I felt the fear, the hopelessness, squeezing my chest so tight I could barely breathe. I sobbed.

  “I can run it again if you want to. I can run it for you every night forever. Or I can delete it completely. How about this one?”

  Night came on and we were in the area of Swindon that young couples go with their cars to get a bit of privacy. I had come here with Darren, a highly unlikely infatuation kindled in the furnace of parental disapproval. He loomed close to me in an amorous embrace in the back of his Morris 8. I was seventeen and impulsive—Darren was eighteen and repulsive. I could smell his beery breath and a postadolescent odor that was so strong you could have grabbed the air and wrung the stench from it with your bare hands. I could see Aornis outside the car, grinning at me, and through the labored panting of Darren, I screamed.