Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

I walked into Mum's hairdresser. The stylists looked at my hair with a sort of shocked numbness until Lady Volescamper, who along with her increasingly eccentric mayoral husband constituted Swindon's most visible aristocracy, suddenly pointed at me and said in a strident tone that could shatter glass:

'That's the style I want. Something new. Something retro – something to cause a sensation at the Swindon Mansion House Ball!'

Mrs Barnet, who was both the chief stylist and official gossip laureate of Swindon, kept her look of horror to herself and then said diplomatically:

'Of course. And may I say that Her Grace's boldness matches her sense of style.'

Lady Volescamper returned to her Femole magazine, appearing not to recognise me, which was just as well – the last time I went to Vole Towers a hell beast from the darkest depths of the human imagination trashed the entrance lobby.

'Hello, Thursday,' said Mrs Barnet, wrapping a sheet around me with an expert flourish, 'haven't seen you for a while.'

'I've been away.'

'In prison?'

'No – just away.'

'Ah. How would you like it? I have it on good authority that the "Joan of Arc" look is set to be quite popular this summer.'

'You know I'm not a fashion person, Gladys. Just get rid of the dopey haircut, would you?'

'As madame wishes.' She hummed to herself for a moment, then asked: 'Been on holiday this year?'

I got back to the car a half-hour later to find Hamlet talking to a traffic warden, who seemed so engrossed in whatever he was telling her that she wasn't writing me a ticket.

'And that,' said Hamlet as soon as I came within earshot, making a thrusting motion with his hand, 'was when I cried: "A rat, a rat!" and killed the unseen old man. Hello, Thursday – goodness, that's short, isn't it?'

'It's better than it was. C'mon, I've got to go and get my job back.'

'Job?' asked Hamlet as we drove off, leaving a very indignant traffic warden, who wanted to know what happened next.

'Yes. Out here you need money to live.'

'I've got lots,' said Hamlet generously. 'You should have some of mine.'

'Somehow I don't think fictional kroner from an unspecified century will cut the mustard down at the First Goliath – and put the skull away. They aren't generally considered a fashion accessory here in the Outland.'

'They're all the rage where I come from.'

'Well, not here. Put it in this Tesco's bag.'

'STOP!'

I scr

eeched to a halt.

'What?'

'That, over there. It's me!'

Before I could say anything Hamlet had jumped out of the car and run across the road to a coin-operated machine on the comer of the street. I parked the Speedster and walked over to join him. He was staring with delight at the simple box, the top half of which was glazed; inside was a suitably attired mannequin visible from the waist up.

'It's called a Will-Speak machine,' I said, passing him a carrier bag. 'Here – put the skull in the bag like I asked.'

'What does it do?'

'Officially it's called a Shakespeare Soliloquy Vending Automaton,' I explained. 'You put in two shillings and get a short snippet from Shakespeare.'