The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'I am still leaving this appalling book,' retorted Heathcliff, who was back on full obnoxious form again.

'No you're not,' replied Havisham.

'You just try and stop—'

Miss Havisham, who was fed up with pussyfooting around and hated men like Heathcliff with a vengeance, grasped him by the collar and pinned his head to the table with a well-placed gun barrel pressed painfully into his neck.

'Listen here,' she said, her voice quavering with anger, 'to me, you are worthless scum. Thank your lucky stars I am loyal to Jurisfiction. Many others in my place would have handed you over. I could kill you now and no one would be any the wiser.'

Heathcliff looked at me imploringly.

'I was outside when I heard the shot,' I told him.

'So were we!' exclaimed the rest of the cast eagerly, excepting Catherine Earnshaw, who simply scowled.

'Perhaps I should do it!' growled Havisham again. 'Perhaps it would be a mercy. I could make it look like an accident—!'

'No!' cried Heathcliff in a contrite tone. 'I've changed my mind. I'm going to stay right here and just be plain old Mr Heathcliff for ever and ever.'

Havisham stared at him and slowly released her grasp.

'Right,' she said, switching her pistol to safe and regaining her breath, 'I think that pretty much concludes this session of Jurisfiction Rage Counselling. What did we learn?'

The co-characters all stared at her, dumbstruck.

'Good. Same time next week, everyone?'

14

Educating the Generics

* * *

'Generics were the chameleons of the Well. In general they were trained to do specific jobs but could be upgraded if the need arose. Occasionally a Generic would jump up spontaneously within the grade, but to jump from one grade to another without external help, they said, was impossible. From what I would learn, "impossible" was a word that should not be bandied about the Well without due thought. Imagination being what it is, anything could happen – and generally did.'

THURSDAY NEXT – The Jurisfiction Chronicles

I made it home on my own after the 'mopping up' had finished in Wuthering Heights. The leader of the ProCath cell was well known to Jurisfiction, and preferred our guns on the inside to Big Martin's teeth on the outside. The house was repaired within a few lines, and because Havisham had been holding the rage counselling session between chapters, no one reading the book noticed anything. In fact, the only evidence of the attack now to be seen in the book was Hareton's shotgun, which exploded accidentally in chapter thirty-two, most likely as a result of a ricocheting bullet damaging the latching mechanism.

'How was your day today?' asked Gran.

'Very … expositional to begin with,' I said, falling into the sofa and tickling Pickwick, who had come over all serious and matronly, 'but it ended quite dramatically.'

'Did you have to be rescued again?'

'Not this time.'

'The first few days in a new job are always a bit shaky,' said Gran. 'Why do you have to work for Jurisfiction anyway?'

'It was part of the Exchange Programme deal.'

'Oh, yes,' she replied. 'Would you like me to make you an omelette?'

'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.