The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

They reached the top and opened the doo—

It was a good job the door opened outwards. If it had opened inwards I would not be here to tell the tale. Jack teetered on the edge and I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. The only part of Mickey Finn's that remained were short floorboards that changed to descriptive prose less than a foot out, the ragged ends whipping and fluttering like pennants in the wind. Beyond these remnants was nothing but a dizzying drop to a bleak and windswept sea, whipped up into a frenzy by a typhoon. The waves rose and fell, carrying with them small ships that looked like trawlers, the sailors on board covered in oilskins. But the sea wasn't water as I knew it; the waves here were made of letters, some of which had coalesced into words and on occasion short sentences. Every now and then a word or sentence would burst enthusiastically from the surface, where it would be caught by the sailors, who held nets on long poles.

'Blast!' said Jack. 'Damn and blast!'

'What is it?' I asked as letters that spelt 'saxophone' came barrelling towards us, changing to a real saxophone as they crossed the threshold and hit the ironwork of the staircase with a crash. The clouds of individual letters in the sky above the wave-tossed sea contained punctuation marks that swirled in ugly patterns. Now and then a bolt of lightning struck the sea and the letters swirled near the point of discharge, spontaneously creating words.

'The Text Sea!' yelled Jack against the rush of wind. We attempted to close the door against the gale as a grammasite flew past with a loud 'Gark!' and expertly speared a verb that had jumped from the sea at a badly chosen moment.

We pressed our weight against the door and it closed. The wind abated, the thunder now merely a distant rumble behind the half-glazed door. I picked up the bent saxophone.

'I had no idea the Text Sea looked like anything at all,' I said, panting. 'I thought it was just an abstract notion.'

'Oh, it's real, all right,' replied Jack, picking up his hat, 'as real as anything is down here. The LiteraSea is the basis for all prose written in roman script. It's connected to the Searyllic Ocean somewhere but I don't know the details. You know what this means, don't you?'

'That scene-stealers have been at work?'

'It looks more like a deletion to me,' replied Jack grimly, 'excised. The whole kerfuffle. Characters, setting, dialogue, sub-plot and the narrative-turning device regarding the fight-fixing that the writer had pinched from On the Waterfront.'

'Where to?' I asked.

'Probably to another book by the same author.' Jack sighed. 'Kind of proves we won't be long for the Well. It's the next nail in the coffin.'

'Can't we just jump into the next chapter and the discovery of the drug dealer shot dead when the undercover buy goes wrong?'

'It would never work,' said Jack, shaking his head. 'Let me see – I wouldn't have known about Hawkins' involvement with Davison's master plan. More importantly, Mickey Finn would have no reason to be killed if he didn't talk to me, so he would have been there to stop the fight before Johnson placed his three-hundred-thousand-pound bet – and the heart-warming scene in the last two pages of the book with the young lad will make no sense unless I meet him here first. Shit. There isn't a holesmith anywhere in the Well who can fill this one. We're finished, Thursday. As soon as the book figures the gym scene has gone the plot will start to spontaneously unravel. We'll have to declare literary insolvency. If we do it quick we might be able to get most of the major parts reassigned to another book.'

'There must be something we can do!'

Jack thought for a moment.

'No, Thursday. It's over. I'm calling it.'

'Hang on,' I said. 'What if we come in again but instead of us both walking up the stairs you start at the top, meet me coming up and explain what you have just found out. We jump straight from there to chapter eight and … you're looking at me a bit oddly.'

'Mary—'

'Thursday.'

'Thursday. That would make chapter seven only a paragraph long!'

'Better than nothing.'

'It won't work.'

'Vonnegut does it all the time.'

He sighed.

'Okay. Lead on, maestro.'

I smiled and we jumped back three pages.

Reading, Tuesday. It had been raining all night and the rain-washed streets reflected the dour sky. Mary was late and she met Jack walking down the stairway from an upstairs gymnasium, his feet ringing on the iron treads.

'Sorry I'm late,' said Mary, 'I had a puncture. Did you meet up with your contact?'

'Y-es,' replied Jack. 'Had you visited the gym – which you haven't, of course – you would have found it a lugubrious place that smells of sweat and dreams, where hopefuls try to spar their way out of Reading's underclass.'