Something Rotten

5 Ham(let) and Cheese

I drove to the car park above the Brunel Centre and bought a pay-and-display ticket, noting how they had almost tripled in price since I was here last. I looked in my purse. I had fifteen pounds, three shillings and an old Skyrail ticket.

'Short of cash?' asked Hamlet as we walked down the stairs to the street-level concourse.

'Let's just say I'm very "receipt rich" at present.' Money had never been a problem in the BookWorld. All the details of life were taken care of by something called 'Narrative Assumption'. A reader would assume you had gone shopping, or gone to the toilet, or brushed your hair, so a writer never needed to outline it — which was just as well, really. I'd forgotten all about the real-world trivialities, but I was actually quite enjoying them, in a mind-dulling sort of way.

'It says here,' said Hamlet, who had been reading the newspaper, 'that Denmark invaded England and put hundreds of innocent English citizens to death without trial!'

'It was the Vikings in 786, Hamlet. I hardly think that warrants the headline: "Bloodthirsty Danes Go on Rampage". Besides, at the time they were no more Danish than we were English.'

'So we're not the historical enemies of England?'

'Not at all.'

'And eating rollmop herrings won't lead to erectile dysfunction?'

'No. And keep your voice down. All these people are real, not D-7 generic crowd types. Out here, you only exist in a play.'

'Okay,' he said, stopping at an electronics shop and staring at the TVs. 'Who's she?'

'Lola Vavoom. An actress.'

'Really? Has she ever played Ophelia?'

'Many times.'

'Was she better than Helena Bonham Carter?'

'Both good — just different.'

'Different? What do you mean?'

'They both brought different things to the role.'

Hamlet laughed.

'I think you're confusing the matter, Thursday. Ophelia is just Ophelia.'

'Not out here. Listen, I'm just going to see how bad my overdraft is.'

'How you Outlanders complicate matters!' he murmured. 'If we were in a book right now you'd be accosted by a solicitor who tells you a wealthy aunt has died and left you lots of money — and then we'd just start the next chapter with you in London making your way to Kaine's office disguised as a cleaning woman.'

'Excuse me—!' said a suited gentleman who looked suspiciously like a solicitor. 'But are you Thursday Next?'

I glanced nervously at Hamlet.

'Perhaps.'

'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr Wentworth of Wentworth, Wentworth and Wentworth, Solicitors. I'm the second Wentworth, if you're interested.'

'And?'

'And . . . I wonder if I could have your autograph? I followed your Jane Eyre escapade with a great deal of interest.'

I breathed a sigh of relief and signed his autograph book. Mr Wentworth thanked me and hurried off.

'You had me worried for a moment there,' said Hamlet. 'I thought I was meant to be the fictitious one.'

I smiled. 'You are, and don't you forget it.'

'Twenty-two thousand pounds?' I said to the cashier. 'Are you sure?'

The cashier looked at me with unblinking eyes, then at Hamlet, who was standing over me a bit indelicately.

'Quite sure. Twenty-two thousand, three hundred and eight pounds and four shillings three pence ha'penny — overdrawn,' she added, in case I had missed it. 'Your landlord sued you for dodo-related tenancy violations and won five thousand pounds. Since you weren't here we upped your credit limit when he demanded payment. Then we raised the limit again to pay for the additional interest.'

'How very thoughtful of you.'

'Thank you. Goliath First National Friendly always aim to please.'

'Are you sure you wouldn't rather go with the "wealthy aunt" scenario?' asked Hamlet, being no help at all.

'No. Shhh.'

'We haven't had a single deposit from you for nearly two and a half years,' continued the bank clerk.

'I've been away.'

'Prison?'

'No. So the rest of my overdraft is—?'

'Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you haven't got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn't reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you hadn't received, further letters asking for a response because we have an odd sense of humour — you know how it all adds up! Can we expect a cheque in the near future?'

'Not really. Um — any chance of raising my credit limit?'

The cashier arched an eyebrow.

'I can get you an appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we can send expensive letters demanding money?'

I gave them Muni's address and made an appointment to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several closing-down sales — one of which I had witnessed with Miss Havisham.

Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have avoided that whole stupid sock episode in Lake Wobegon Days.

'Okay, I give up,' said Hamlet quite suddenly. 'How does it all turn out?'

'How does what all turn out?'

He spread his arms out wide.

'All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the small dodo, that Superhoop thing and the big company — what's it called again?'

'Goliath?'

'Right. How does it all turn out?'

'I haven't the slightest idea. Out here our lives are pretty much an unknown quantity.'

Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept.

'How do you live here not knowing what the future might bring?'

'That's part of the fun. The pleasure of anticipation.'

'There is no pleasure in anticipation,' said Hamlet glumly. 'Except perhaps,' he added, 'in killing that old fool Polonius.'

'My point exactly,' I replied. 'Where you come from events are preordained and everything that happens to you has some sort of relevance farther on in the story.'

'It's clear you haven't read Hamlet for a— LOOK OUT!'

Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small steamroller — of the size that works on sidewalks and paths — bore rapidly down on us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.

'Are you okay?' asked Hamlet, helping me to my feet.

'I'm fine — thanks to you.'

'Goodness!' said a workman, running up to us and turning a valve to shut off the roller. 'Are you all right?'

'Not hurt in the least. What happened?'

'I don't know,' replied the workman, scratching his head. 'Are you sure you're okay?'

'Really, I'm fine.'

We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner of the shop didn't look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about what else he could charge to insurance.

'You see?' I said to Hamlet as we walked away.

'What?'

'This is exactly what I mean. A lot happens in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from now; as it is it means nothing — after all, not every incident in life has a meaning.'

'Tell that to the scholars who study me,' Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before adding: 'If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Over-long, detailed to the point of distraction — and ultimately without a major resolution.'

'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'that's exactly what we like about it.'

We reached the SpecOps building. It was of a sensible Germanic design, built during the occupation, and it was here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with Acheron Hades' plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of Jane Eyre. Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.

'Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?'

'Please.'

We walked into the Cafe Goliathe opposite. The same one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour before he was eradicated.

'Hey!' said the man behind the counter, who seemed somehow familiar. 'We don't serve that kind in here!'

'What kind?'

'The Danish kind.'

Goliath were obviously working with Kaine on this particular nonsense.

'He's not Danish. He's my cousin Eddie from Wolverhampton.'

'Really? Then why is he dressed like Hamlet?'

I thought quickly.

'Because . . . he's insane. Isn't that right, Cousin Eddie?'

'Yes,' said Hamlet, to whom feigning madness was not much of a problem. 'When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.'

'See?'

'Well, that's all right, then.'

I started as I realised why he seemed familiar. It was Mr Cheese, one of the Goliath corporate bullies that Brik Schitt-Hawse had employed. He and his partner Mr Chalk had made my life difficult before I left. He didn't have his goatee any more but it was definitely him. Undercover? I doubted it — his name was on his Cafe Goliathe badge with, I noted, two gold stars — one for washing up and the other for latte frothing. But he didn't show any sign of recognising me.

'What will you have, Ham— I mean, Cousin Eddie?'

'What is there?'

'Espresso, Mocha, Latte, White Mocha, Hot Chocolate, Decaff, Recaff, Nocaff, Somecaff, Extracaff, Goliachmo™ . . . what's the matter?'

Hamlet had started to tremble, a look of pain and hopelessness on his face as he stared wild-eyed at the huge choice laid out in front of him.

'To espresso or to latte, that is the question,' he muttered, his free will evaporating rapidly. I had asked Hamlet for something he couldn't easily supply: a decision. 'Whether ’tis tastier on the palette to choose white mocha over plain,' he continued in a rapid garble, 'or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless choice, end one's heartache—'

'Cousin Eddie!' I said sharply. 'Cut it out!'

'To froth, to sprinkle, perchance to drink, and in that—'

'He'll have a mocha with extra cream, please.'

Hamlet stopped abruptly once the burden of decision was taken from him.

'Sorry,' he said, rubbing his temples, 'I don't know what came over me. All of a sudden I had this overwhelming desire to talk for a very long time without actually doing anything. Is that normal?'

'Not for me. I'll have a latte, Mr Cheese,' I said, watching his reaction carefully.

He still didn't seem to recognise me. He rang up the cost and then started making the coffees.

'Do you remember me?'

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me carefully for a moment or two.

'No.'

'Thursday Next?'

His face broke into a broad grin and he put out a large hand for me to shake, welcoming me as an old workmate rather than a past nemesis. I faltered, then shook his hand slowly.

'Miss Next! Where have you been? Prison?'

'Away.'

'Ah! But you're well?'

'I'm okay,' I said suspiciously, retrieving my hand. 'How are you?'

'Not bad!' He laughed, looking at me sideways for a moment and narrowing his eyes. 'You've changed. What is it?'

'Almost no hair?'

'That's it. We were looking for you everywhere. You spent almost eighteen months in the Goliath "top ten most wanted" although you never made it to the number-one slot.'

'I'm devastated.'

'No one has ever spent ten months on the list,' carried on Cheese with a sort of dreamy nostalgic look, 'the next longest was three weeks. We looked everywhere for you!'

'But you gave up?'

'Goodness me no,' replied Cheese. 'Perseverance is what Goliath do best. There was a restructuring of corporate policy and we were reallocated.'

'You mean fired.'

'No one is ever fired from Goliath,' said Cheese in a shocked tone. 'Cots to coffins. You've heard the adverts.'

'So, just moved on from bullying and terrifying and into lattes and mochas?

'Haven't you heard?' said Cheese, frothing up some milk. 'Goliath has moved its corporate image away from the "overbearing bully" and more towards "peace, love and understanding".'

'I heard something about it last night,' I replied, 'but you'll forgive me if I'm not convinced.'

'Forgive is what Goliath do best, Miss Next. Faith is a difficult commodity to imbue — and that's why violent and ruthless bullies like me have to be reallocated. Our corporate seer Sister Bettina foresaw a necessity for us to change to a faith-based corporate management system, but the rules concerning new religions are quite strict — we have to make changes to the corporation that are meaningful and genuine. That's why the old Goliath Internal Security Service is now known as Goliath Is Seriously Sorry — you see, we even kept the old initials so we didn't have to divert money away from good causes to buy new headed notepaper.'

'Or have to change it back when this charade has been played out.'

'You know,' said Cheese, waving a finger at me, 'you always were just that teensy-weensy bit cynical. You should learn to be more trusting.'

'Trusting. Right. And you think the public will believe this touchy-feely good-Lord-we're-sorry-forgive-us-please crap after four decades of rampant exploitation?'

'Rampant exploitation?' echoed Cheese in a dismayed tone. 'I don't think so. "Proactive greater goodification" was more what we had in mind — and it's five decades, not four. Are you sure your cousin Eddie isn't Danish?'

'Definitely not.'

I thought about Brik Schitt-Hawse, the odious Goliath agent •who had my husband eradicated in the first place.

'What about Schitt-Hawse? Where does he work these days?'

'I think he moved into some post in Goliathopolis. I really don't move in those circles any more. Mind you, we should all get together for a reunion and have a drink! What do you think?'

'I think I'd rather have my husband back,' I replied darkly.

'Oh!' said Cheese, suddenly remembering just what particular unpleasantness he and Goliath had done to me, then adding slowly: 'You must hate us!'

'Just a lot.'

'We can't have that. Repent is what Goliath do best. Have you applied for a Goliath Unfair Treatment Reversal?'

I stared at him and raised an eyebrow.

'Well,' he began, 'Goliath have been allowing disgruntled citizens to apply to have reversed any unfair or unduly harsh measures taken against them — sort of a big apology, really. If Goliath is to become the opiate of the masses, we must first atone for our sins. We like to right any wrongs, and then have a good strong hug to show we really mean it.'

'Hence your demotion to coffee shop attendant.'

'Exactly so!'

'How do I apply?'

'We've opened an Apologarium in Goliathopolis; you can take the free shuttle from the Tarbuck Graviport. They'll tell you what to do.'

'Harmonious peace, eh?'

'Peace is what Goliath do best, Miss Next. Just fill out a form and see one of our trained apologists. I'm sure they can get your husband back in a jiffy!'

I took the mocha-with-extra-cream and latte and sat by the window, staring at the SpecOps building in silence. Hamlet sensed my disquiet and busied himself with a list of things he wanted to tell Ophelia but didn't think he would be able to, then another list of things he should tell her, but wouldn't. Then a list of all the different lists he had written about Ophelia, and finally a letter of appreciation to Sir John Gielgud.

'I'm going to sort out a few things,' I said after a while. 'Don't move from here and don't tell anyone who you really are. Understand?'

'Yes.'

'Who are you?'

'Hamlet, Prince of . . . just kidding. I'm your cousin Eddie.'

'Good. And you have cream on your nose.'