The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'Nothing's wrong with it,' he replied, trying to sound reasonable. 'In fact, everything's right with it! Think about it for a moment. With UltraWord™ control of the BookWorld will never have been easier. And with modern and free-thinking Outlanders like you and I, we can take fiction to new and dizzying heights!'

I pushed my knee harder into the back of his neck and he yelped.

'And where does Kaine come into this?'

'UltraWord™ benefits everyone, Next. Us in here and publishers out there. It's the perfect system!'

'Perfect? You need to resort to murder to keep it on track? How can it be perfect?'

'Murder happens all the time in fiction – without it and the jeopardy it generates, we'd have lost a million readers long ago!'

'She was my friend, Tweed!' I yelled. 'Not some cannon fodder for a cheap thriller!'

'You're making a big mistake,' he replied, his face still pressed into the carpet. 'I can offer you a key position at Text Grand Central. With UltraWord™ under our control we will have the power to change anything we please within fiction. You gave Jane Eyre a happy ending – we can do the same with countless others and give the reading public what they want. We will dictate terms to that moth-eaten bunch of bureaucrats at the Council of Genres and forge a new, stronger fiction that will catapult the novel to greater heights – no longer will we be looked down upon by the academic press and marginalised by non-fiction!'

I had heard enough.

'You're finished, Tweed. When the Bellman hears what you've been up to—!'

'The Bellman is a powerless fool, Next. He does what we tell him to. Release me and take your place at my side. Untold adventures and riches await you – we can even write your husband back.'

'Not a chance. I want the real Landen or none at all.'

'You won't know the difference. Take my hand – I won't offer it again.'

'No deal.'

'Then,' he said slowly, 'it is goodbye.'

I saw something out of the corner of my eye and moved quickly to my right. A pickaxe handle glanced off my shoulder and struck the carpet. It was Uriah Hope. No wonder Tweed hadn't seemed that worried. I rolled off Tweed and dodged Uriah's next blow, pushing myself backwards along the carpet in my haste to get away. He swung again and shattered a desk, wedging the handle in the wood and struggling with it long enough for me to get to my feet and raise my gun. I wasn't quick enough and he knocked it from my grasp; I ducked the next blow and ran back towards where Tweed was starting to get up. He hooked my ankle and I came crashing down heavily. I rolled on to my back as Uriah jumped towards me with a wild cry. I put out a foot, caught him on the chest and heaved. His momentum carried him over on to the pile of dictionaries – and the mispeling vyrus. Tweed tried to grab me but I was off and running down the corridor as the DanverClones began to stir.

'Kill her!' screamed Tweed, and the Danvers started to move rapidly towards me. I took my TravelBook from my pocket, opened it at the right page and stopped dead, right in the middle of the corridor. I couldn't out-run them but I could out-read them. As I jumped out I could feel the bony fingers of the Danvers clutching my rapidly vanishing form.

I jumped clean into Norland Park. Past the striking nursery characters and the frog-faced doorman to appear a little too suddenly in the Jurisfiction offices. I ran straight into the Red Queen, who collapsed and in turn knocked over Benedict and the Bellman. I quickly grabbed Benedict's pistol in case Tweed or Hope arrived ready for action and was consequently attacked from an unexpected quarter. Mistaking my intentions, the Red Queen grabbed my gun arm and twisted it around behind me while Benedict tackled me round the waist and pulled me down, yelling:

'Gun! Protect the Bellman!'

'Wait!' I shouted. 'There's a problem with UltraWord™!'

'What do you mean?' demanded the Bellman when I had surrendered the gun. 'Is this some sort of joke?'

'No joke,' I replied. 'It's Tweed—'

'Don't listen to her!' shouted Tweed, who had just appeared. 'She is an ambitious murderer who will stop at nothing to get what she wants!'

The Bellman looked at us both in turn.

'You have proof of this, Harris?'

'Oh yes.' He smiled. 'More proof than you'll ever need. Heep, bring it in.'

Uriah Hope – or Heep as he was now – had survived the mispeling but had been changed irrevocably. While before he had been adventurous he was, thanks to the vyrus, cadaverous; thin instead of lithe, fawning instead of frowning. But that wasn't the worst of it. Tweed had planned things well – Uriah was holding the stained pillowcase that contained Snell's head. Not his own, of course – the plot device he had paid so much for in the Well.

'We found this in Thursday's home,' announced Tweed, 'hidden in the broom cupboard. Heep, would you?'

The thin and sallow youth, whose hair was now oily rather than curly, laid the bag on a table and lifted the head out by its hair. A gasp came from Benedict's lips and the Red Queen crossed herself.

'Heavens above,' murmured the Bellman, 'it's Godot!'