Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'Millon it is, then.'

And we shook hands. The man on the ground moaned and sat up, rubbing his head.

'Who's your friend?'

'He's not my friend,' said Millon, 'he's my stalker. And a pain in the arse he is too.'

'Wait – you're a stalker and you have a stalker?'

'Of course!' Millon laughed. 'Ever since I published my autobiography, A Stalk on the Wild Side, I've become a bit of a celebrity myself. I even have a sponsorship deal with Compass Rose™ duffel coats. It is my celebrity status that enables Adam here to stalk me. Come to think of it, he's a Grade 3 stalker so it's possible he's got a stalker of his own – haven't you heard the poem?'

Before I could stop him he started to recite:

'. . . And so the tabloids do but say,

that stalkers on other stalkers prey,

and these have smaller stalkers to stalk ’em

and so proceed, ad infinitum . . . '

'No, I hadn't heard that one,' I mused as the second stalker placed a handkerchief on his bleeding lip.

'Miss Next, this is Adam Gnusense. Adam, Miss Next.'

He waved weakly at me, looked at the bloodied handkerchief and sighed mournfully. I felt rather remorseful all of a sudden.

'Sorry to have hit you, Mr Gnusense,' I said apologetically, 'I didn't know what either of you was up to.'

'Occupational hazard, Miss Next.'

'Hey, Adam,' said Millon, suddenly sounding enthusiastic, 'do you have your own stalker yet?'

'Somewhere,' said Gnusense, looking around, 'a Grade 34 loser. The sad bastard was rummaging through my bins last night. Passe or what!'

'Kids – tsk,' said Millon. 'It might have been de rigueur in the sixties but the modern stalker is much more subtle. Long vigils, copious notes, timed entry and exits, telephoto lenses.'

'We live in sad times,' agreed Adam, shaking his head sadly. 'Must be off. I said I'd keep a close eye on Adrian Lush for a friend.'

He stood up and shambled slowly away down the alley, stumbling on discarded beer cans.

'Not a great talker is old Adam,' said Millon in a whisper, 'but sticks to his target like a limpet. You wouldn't catch him rummaging through dustbins – unless he was giving a masterclass for a few of the young pups, of course. Tell me, Miss Next, where have you been for the past two and a half years? It's been a bit dull here – after the first eighteen months of you not showing up, I'd reduced my stalking to only three nights a week.'

'You'd never believe me.'

'You'd be surprised what I can believe. Aside from st

alking I've just finished my first book: A Short History of the Special Operations Network. I'm also editor of Conspiracy Theorist magazine. In between pieces on the very tangible link between Goliath and Yorrick Kaine and the existence of a mysterious beast known only as "Guinzilla", we've run several articles devoted entirely to you and that Jane Eyre thing. We'd love to do a piece on your uncle Mycroft's work, too. Even though we know almost nothing, the conspiracy network is alive with healthy half-truths, lies and supposition. Did he really build an LCD cloaking device for cars?'

'Sort of.'

'And translating carbon paper?'

'He called it rossetionery.'

'And what about the ovinator? Conspiracy Theorist devotes several pages of unsubstantiated rumours to this one invention alone.'

'I don't know. Some sort of machine for cooking eggs, perhaps? Is there anything you don't know about my family?'