The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'Thursday Next,' I replied. 'From Swindon. How are you liking the awards?'

'Pretty good,' he returned. 'I was disappointed that Hamlet won the "Shakespearean Character You'd Most Like to Slap" award – my money was on Othello.'

'Well,' I replied, 'Othello won "Dopiest Shakespearean Lead" and they don't like them to win more than one each.'

'Is that how it works?' he mused. 'The voting system makes no sense to me.'

'They say you'll be partnered at Jurisfiction with Emperor Zhark,' I said, more by way of conversation than anything else.

'I hope not,' replied Foyle. 'We've been trying to raise the intellectual and philosophical status of Science Fiction for some time now; people like him don't help the cause one iota.'

'Why's that?'

'Well,' said Foyle, 'how can I put it? Zhark belongs to what we describe as "Lesser Science Fiction" or "Winsome" or maybe even "

Classic".'

'How about "crap"?'

'Yes, I'm afraid so.'

There was a burst of applause as the MC announced the next award.

'Ladies, gentlemen and things,' he declared, 'we had asked Dorothy to present the next award but she was, sadly, kidnapped by flying monkeys just before the show. I will therefore read the nominations myself

The MC sighed. Dorothy's absence was just the latest in a number of small problems that usually interrupted the smooth running of the show. Earlier, Rumplestiltskin had gone berserk and attacked someone who guessed his name, Mary Elliot from Persuasion had declared herself 'too unwell' to collect the 'Most Tiresome Austen Character' award, and Boo Radley couldn't be persuaded to come out of his dressing room.

'So,' continued the MC, 'the nominations for the "Best Dead Person in Fiction" award are as follows.' He looked at the back of the envelope. 'First nomination: Count Dracula.'

There was a brief burst of applause, mixed with a few jeers.

'Yes indeed,' exclaimed the MC, 'the supreme Dark Lord himself, father of an entire sub-genre. From his castle in the Carpathians he burst upon the world and darkened shadows for ever. Let's read a little bit.'

He placed a short extract under the ImaginoTransference device and I felt a cold shadow on my neck as the Dark Lord's description entered my imagination.

… There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which – for the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death – and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor, and the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, to find any sign of life, but in vain …

There was applause and the lights came up again.

'From the undead to the very dead, the second nomination is for a man who returns selflessly from the grave to warn his erstwhile business partner of the terrors which await him if he does not change his ways. All the way from A Christmas Carol – Jacob Marley!'

… The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind …

I glanced across at Marley on the Christmas Carol table. Through his semi-transparent form I could see Scrooge pulling a large Christmas cracker with Tiny Tim.

When the applause died down the MC announced the third nomination:

'Banquo's ghost from Macbeth. A slain friend and bloody revenge are on the menu in this Scottish play of power and obsession in the eleventh century,' he enthused. 'Is Macbeth the master of his own destiny, or the other way round? Let's have a look.'

Enter Ghost.

MACBETH. Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes

Which thou dost glare with.