Something Rotten

43 Recovery

I went home two weeks later to a house that was so full of flowers it looked like Kew Gardens. I still didn't have complete command of the right-hand side of my body but every day it seemed a little bit more like part of me, a little less numb. I sat and looked out of the open French windows into the garden. The air was heavy with the scents of summer and the breeze gently played upon the net curtains. Friday was drawing with some crayons on the floor and I could hear the clackety-clack of Landen's old Underwood typewriter next door, and in the kitchen Louis Armstrong was on the wireless singing 'La Vie en rose'. It was the first time I had been able to relax for almost as long as I could remember. I was going to need an extended convalescence but would go back to work eventually — perhaps at SpecOps, perhaps at Jurisfiction, perhaps both.

'I came to say goodbye.'

It was Hamlet. I had learned from him earlier that William Shgakespeafe had managed to extricate The Merry Wives of Windsor from Hamlet, and both plays were as they should be. The one enigmatic, the other a spin-off.

'Are you sure you're—

He silenced me with a wave of his hand and sat down on the sofa while Alan gazed at him adoringly.

'I've learned a lot of things while I've been here,' he said. 'I've learned that there are many Hamlets and we love each one of them for their different interpretation. I liked Gibson's because it has the least amount of dithering, Orson because he did it with the best voice, Gielgud for the ease with which he placed himself within the role, and Jacobi for his passion. By the way, have you heard about this Branagh fellow?'

'No.'

'He's just starting to get going. I've got a feeling his Hamlet will be stupendous.'

He thought for a moment.

'For centuries I've been worrying about audiences seeing me as a mouthy spoiled brat who can't make up his mind about anything, but having seen the real world I can understand the appeal. My play is popular because my failings are your failings, my indecision the indecision of you all. We all know what has to be done; it's just that sometimes we don't know how to get there. Acting without thought doesn't really help in the long run. I might dither for a while, but at least I make the right decision in the end: I bear my troubles, and take arms against them. And therein lies a message for all mankind, although I'm not exactly sure what it is. Perhaps there's no message. I don't really know. Besides, if I don't dither, there's no play.'

'So you're not going to kill your uncle in the first act?'

'No. In fact, I'm going to leave the play exactly as it is. I've decided instead to focus my energies towards being the Jurisfiction agent for all of Shakespeare's works. I'll have a go at Marlowe, too— but I'm not keen on Webster.'

'That's excellent news,' I told him, 'Jurisfiction will be very happy.'

He paused.

'I'm still a bit annoyed that someone told Ophelia about Emma. It wasn't you, was it?'

'On my honour.'

He got up, bowed and kissed my hand.

'Come and visit me, won't you?'

'You can count on it,' I replied. 'Just one question: where on earth did you find Daphne Farquitt? She's the recluse's recluse.'

He grinned.

'I didn't. By the morning of the Superhoop I had managed to gather about nine people. There's a limit to how much anti-Kaine sentiment you can muster going door to door in Swindon at two in the morning.'

'So there never was a Farquitt fan club?'

'Oh, I'm sure there is somewhere, but Kaine didn't know it, now, did he?'

I laughed.

'I've a feeling you're going to be an asset to Jurisfiction, Hamlet. And I want you to take something with you as a gift from me.'

'A gift? I don't think I've ever had one of those before.'

'No? Well, always a first for everything. I want you to have . . . Alan.'

'The dodo?'

'I think he'd be an invaluable addition to Elsinore Castle — just don't let him get into the main story.'

Hamlet looked at Alan, who looked back at him longingly.

'Thank you,' he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, 'I'm deeply honoured.'

Alan went a bit floppy as Hamlet picked him up, and a few moments later they both vanished back to Elsinore, Hamlet to further his work as a career procrastinator, and Alan to cause trouble in the Danish court.

'Hello, Sweetpea.'

'Hi, Dad.'

'You did a terrific job over that Superhoop. How are you feeling?'

'Pretty good.'

'Did I tell you that as soon as Zvlkx got hit by that number twenty-three bus the Ultimate Likelihood Index of that armageddon rose to eighty-three per cent?'

'No, you never told me that.'

'Just as well, really — I wouldn't have wanted you to panic.'

'Dad, who was St Zvlkx?'

He leaned closer.

'Don't tell a soul but he was someone named Steve Schultz from the Toast Marketing Board. I think I may have recruited him or he may have approached me to help — I'm not sure. History has rewritten itself so many times I'm really not sure how it was to begin with — it's a bit like trying to guess the original colour of a wall when it's been repainted eight times. All I can say is that everything turned out okay — and that things are far weirder than we can know. But the main thing is that Goliath now answer to the Toast Marketing Board and Kaine is out of power. The whole thing has been rubber-stamped into historical fact and that's the way it's going to stay.'

'Dad?'

'Yes?'

'How did you manage to jump Schultz or Zvlkx or whoever he was all the way from the thirteenth century without the ChronoGuard spotting what you were up to?'

'Where do you hide a pebble, Sweetpea?'

'On a beach.'

'And where do you hide a thirteenth-century impostor saint?'

'With . . . lots of other thirteenth-century impostor saints?'

He smiled.

'You sent all twenty-eight of them forward just to hide St Zvlkx?'

'Twenty-seven, actually — one of them was real. But I didn't do it alone. I needed someone to whip up a timephoon in the Dark Ages as cover. Someone with remarkable skills as a time traveller. An expert who can surf the timeline with a skill I will never possess.'

'Me?'

He chuckled.

'No, silly — Friday.'

The little boy looked up when he heard his name. He chewed the crayon, made a face and spat the bits on Pickwick, who jumped up in fright and ran away to hide.

'Meet the future head of the ChronoGuard, Sweetpea. How did you think he survived Landen's eradication?'

I stared at the little boy, who stared back, and smiled.

Dad looked at his watch.

'Well, I've got to go. Nelson's up to his old tricks again. Time waits for no man, as we say.'