The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'Not on this budget.' Snudd laughed. 'Humorous sidekicks – kids or otherwise – cost bundles.'

There was a tap on the window.

'Hello, Prometheus,' said Jack. 'Have you met Thursday Next? She's from the Outland.'

Prometheus looked at me and put out a hand. He was an olive-skinned man of perhaps thirty, with tightly curled black hair close to his head. He had deep black eyes and a strong Grecian nose that was so straight you could have laid a set-square on it.

'Outland, eh? What did you think of Byron's retelling of my story?'

'I thought it excellent.'

'Me too. When are we going to get the Elgin marbles back?'

'No idea.'

Prometheus, more generally known as the fire-giver, was a Titan who had stolen fire from the gods and given it to mankind, a good move or a terrible one, depending on which papers you read. As punishment Zeus had him chained to a rock in the Caucasus where his liver was picked out every night by eagles, only to regrow during the day. He looked quite healthy, in spite of it. Quite what he was doing in Caversham Heights, I had no idea.

'I heard you had a spot of bother,' he said to Jack. 'Something about the plot falling to pieces?'

'My attempts to keep it secret don't appear to be working,' muttered Jack. 'I don't want a panic. Most Generics have a heart of gold but if there is the sniff of a problem with the narrative they'll abandon Heights like rats from a ship – and an influx of Generics seeking employment in the Well could set the Book Inspectorate off like a rocket.'

'Ah,' replied the Titan, 'tricky indeed. I was wondering if I could offer my services in any way?'

'As a Greek drug dealer or something?' asked Nathan.

'No,' replied Prometheus slightly testily, 'as Prometheus.'

'Oh yeah?' Snudd laughed. 'What are you going to do? Steal fire from the DeFablio family and give it to Mickey Finn?'

Prometheus stared at him as though he were a twit – which he was, I suppose.

'No, I thought I could be here awaiting extradition back to the Caucasus by Zeus' lawyers or something, and Jack could be in charge of witness protection, trying to protect me against Zeus' hitmen – sort of like The Client but with gods instead of the Mob.'

'If you want to cross genre we have to build from the ground up,' replied Snudd disparagingly, 'and that takes more money and expertise than you guys possess.'

'What did you say?' asked Prometheus in a threatening manner.

'You heard me. Everyone thinks it's easy to be a plotsmith.' He stabbed a finger in Prometheus' direction. 'Well, let me tell you Mr smart-alec-Greek-Titan-fire-giver, I didn't spend four years at plotschool to be told my job by an ex-convict!'

Prometheus' lip quivered.

'Okay,' he snarled, pulling up his sleeves. 'You and me. Right now, here on the sidewalk.'

'C'mon,' said Jack in a soothing manner, 'this isn't going to get us anywhere. Snudd, I think perhaps you should listen to what Prometheus has to say. He might have a point.'

'A point?' cried Snudd, getting out of the car but avoiding Prometheus. 'I'll tell you the point. You came to me wanting my help and I gave it – now I have to listen to dumb ideas from any myth that happens to wander along. This was a favour, Jack – my time isn't cheap. And since this is an ideas free-for-all, let me tell you a home truth: the Great Panjandrum himself couldn't sort out the problems in this book. And you know why? Because it was shit to begin with. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got two sub-plots to write for proper, paying, clients!'

And without another word, he vanished.

'Well,' said Prometheus, getting into the back seat, 'who needs cretins like him?'

'Me,' sighed Jack. 'I need all the help I can get. What do you care what happens to us anyway?'

'Well,' said the Titan slowly, 'I kind of like it here and all that mail redirection is a pain in the arse. What shall we do now?'

'Lunch?' I suggested.

'Good idea,' said Prometheus. 'I wait tables at Zorba's in the high street – I can get us a discount.'