Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'Good. Don't get too fond of it, I'm taking you back.'

I grasped him again, muttered the password under my breath and jumped out of fiction, something I had a lot less trouble with. We arrived behind some dustbins just as Kaine and his entourage were driving off. I ran up to Joffy, who was still waving goodbye, and told him to snap out of it.

'Sorry,' he said, shaking his head. 'What happened to you?'

'Don't ask. C'mon, let's go home.'

We left the scene as a very excited and confused middle-aged man tried to tell anyone who would listen about his 'near death' experience.

I went to bed past midnight, my head spinning from my experience of Kaine's almost hypnotic hold on the populace. Still, I wasn't out of ideas. I could try to grab him again and, failing that, use the eraserhead I had smuggled out of the BookWorld. Destroying him didn't bother me. I'd be no more guilty of murder than an author with a delete key. But while Formby opposed him Kaine would not become dictator, so I had a bit of time to work up a strategy. I could observe, and plan. 'Time spent doing renaissance,' Mrs Malaprop used to tell me, 'is never wasted.'

4

A Town Like Swindon

FORMBY DENIES KAINE

President-for-life George Formby vetoed Chancellor Kaine's attempts to make himself dictator of England yesterday during one of the most heated exchanges this nation has ever seen. Kaine's Ultimate Executive Power Bill, already passed by Parliament, requires only the presidential signature to become law. President Formby, speaking from the presidental palace in Wigan, told reporters: 'Eeee, I wouldn't have a ***** like that run a grocer's, let alone a country!' Chancellor Kaine. angered by the President's remark, declared Formby 'too old to have a say in this nation's future', 'out of touch' and 'a poor singer', the last of which he was forced to retract after a public outcry.'

Article in The Toad, 13 July 1988

It was the morning following Evade the Question Time and I had slept badly, waking up before Friday, which was unusual. I stared at the ceiling and thought about Kaine. I'd have to fo

llow him to his next public engagement before he discovered that I had returned. I was just thinking about why Joffy and I had nearly been sucked into the whole Yorrick circus when Friday awoke and blinked at me in a breakfast sort of way. I dressed quickly and took him downstairs.

'Welcome to Swindon Breakfast with Toad' announced the TV presenter as we walked in, 'with myself, Warwick Fridge, and the lovely Leigh Onzolent—'

'Hello—'

'—bringing you two hours of news and views, fun and competitions to see you into the day. Breakfast with Toad is sponsored by Arkwright's Doorknobs, the finest door furniture in Wessex.'

Warwick turned to Leigh, who was looking way too glamorous for eight in the morning. She smiled and continued:

'This morning we'll be speaking to croquet captain Roger Kapok about Swindon's chances in Superhoop '88, and also to a man who claims to have seen unicorns in a near death experience. Network Toad's resident dodo whisperer will be on hand for your pet's psychiatric problems and our Othello backwards-reading competition reaches the quarter-finals. Later on we talk to Mr Joffy Next about tomorrow's potential resurrection with St Zvlkx, but first, the news. The CEO of Goliath has announced contrition targets to be attainable within—'

'Morning, daughter,' said my mother, who had just walked into the kitchen, 'I never thought of you as an early riser.'

'I wasn't until Junior turned up,' I replied, pointing at Friday, who was eyeing the porridge pot expectantly, 'but if there's one thing he knows how to do, it's eat.'

'It's what you did best when you were his age. Oh,' added my mother absently, 'I have to give you something, by the way.'

She hurried from the room and returned with a sheath of official-looking papers.

'Mr Hicks left them for you.'

Braxton Hicks was my old boss back at Swindon SpecOps. I had left abruptly, and from the look of his opening letter it didn't look as if he was very happy about it. I had been demoted to 'Literary Detective Researcher', and the letter demanded my gun and badge back. The second letter was an outstanding warrant of arrest relating to a trumped-up charge of possession of a small amount of illegally owned bootleg cheese.

'Is cheese still overpriced?' I asked my mother.

'Criminal!' she muttered. 'Over five hundred per cent duty. And it's not just cheese, either. They've extended the duty to cover all dairy products – even yogurt.'

I sighed. I would probably have to go into SpecOps and explain myself. I could beg forgiveness, go to the stressperts and plead post-traumatic stress disorder or Xplkqulkiccasia or something and ask for my old job back. Perhaps if I were to get handy with a nine iron it might swing things with my golf-mad boss. Outside SpecOps was not a good place to be if I wanted to hunt Yorrick Kaine or lobby the ChronoGuard for my husband back; it would help to have access to all the SpecOps and police databases.

I looked through the papers. I had apparently been found guilty of the cheese transgression and fined £5,000 plus costs.

'Did you pay this?' I asked my mother, showing her the court demand.

'Yes.'