The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)

A broad grin broke out on Hades’s features. He put the poem back in his pocket.

“Stout fellow! You won’t regret this.”

He thought for a moment.

“Actually, you probably will.”

Mycroft sat unsteadily on a handy chair.

“By the by,” went on Hades, “have I introduced you to all my fiendish compatriots?”

Mycroft shook his head sadly.

“No? Most remiss. The man with the gun over there is Mr. Delamare. His obedience is matched only by his stupidity. He does everything I say and would die for me if necessary. A sort of human red setter, if you will. He has an IQ below that of a Neanderthal and believes only what he reads in The Gad-fly. Mr. Delamare, my friend, have you committed your wicked act today?”

“Yes, Mr. Hades. I drove at seventy-three miles per hour.”

Hades frowned.

“That doesn’t sound very wicked.”

Delamare chuckled.

“Through the mall?”

Hades wagged an approving finger and smiled a wicked smile.

“Very good.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hades.”

“Over there is Mr. Hobbes. He is an actor of some distinction whose talents the English Shakespeare Company foolishly decides to ignore. We will try and rectify that fault; is that not so, Mr. Hobbes?”

“It is, sire,” responded Mr. Hobbes, bowing low with a flourish. He was dressed in tights, a leather jerkin and codpiece. He had been passed over for every major part with the ESC for ten years, relegated to walk-ons and understudying. He had become so dangerously unstable that even the other actors noticed. He had joined up with Acheron shortly after his escape from a lengthy prison sentence; pushing thespian interpretation to the limits, he had killed Laertes for real while playing Hamlet.

“The third man over there is Müller, a doctor whom I befriended after he was struck off. The particulars are a bit sordid. We’ll talk about it over dinner some time, as long as we’re not eating steak tartar. The fourth man is Felix7, who is one of my most trusted companions. He can remember no farther than a week in the past and has no aspirations for the future. He thinks only of the work he has been assigned to carry out. He is without conscience, mercy or pity. A fine man. We should have more like him.”

Hades clapped his hands together happily.

“Shall we get to work? I haven’t committed a singularly debauched act for almost an hour.”

Mycroft reluctantly walked over to the Prose Portal and started to ready it. The bookworms were fed, watered and cleaned, power supplies were laid on and all the details in the child’s exercise book neatly followed. As Mycroft worked, Acheron sat down and flicked through an old manuscript filled with spidery writing, replete with scribbled corrections and bound up with faded red ribbon. He skipped through various sections until he found what he was looking for.

“Perfect!” he chortled.

Mycroft finished the testing procedure and stepped back.

“It’s ready,” he sighed.

“Excellent!” Acheron beamed as he handed over the aged manuscript.

“Open the portal just here.”

He tapped the page and smiled. Mycroft slowly took the manuscript and looked at the title.

“Martin Chuzzlewit! Fiend!”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear professor.”