Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'No. So the rest of my overdraft is—?'

'Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you haven't got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn't reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you hadn't received, further letters asking for a response because we have an odd sense of humour – you know how it all adds up! Can we expect a cheque in the near future?'

'Not really. Um – any chance of raising my credit limit?'

The cashier arched an eyebrow.

'I can get you an appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we can send expensive letters demanding money?'

I gave them Muni's address and made an appointment to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several closing-down sales – one of

which I had witnessed with Miss Havisham.

Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have avoided that whole stupid sock episode in Lake Wobegon Days.

'Okay, I give up,' said Hamlet quite suddenly. 'How does it all turn out?'

'How does what all turn out?'

He spread his arms out wide.

'All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the small dodo, that Superhoop thing and the big company – what's it called again?'

'Goliath?'

'Right. How does it all turn out?'

'I haven't the slightest idea. Out here our lives are pretty much an unknown quantity.'

Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept.

'How do you live here not knowing what the future might bring?'

'That's part of the fun. The pleasure of anticipation.'

'There is no pleasure in anticipation,' said Hamlet glumly. 'Except perhaps,' he added, 'in killing that old fool Polonius.'

'My point exactly,' I replied. 'Where you come from events are preordained and everything that happens to you has some sort of relevance farther on in the story.'

'It's clear you haven't read Hamlet for a— LOOK OUT!'

Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small steamroller – of the size that works on sidewalks and paths – bore rapidly down on us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.

'Are you okay?' asked Hamlet, helping me to my feet.

'I'm fine – thanks to you.'

'Goodness!' said a workman, running up to us and turning a valve to shut off the roller. 'Are you all right?'

'Not hurt in the least. What happened?'

'I don't know,' replied the workman, scratching his head. 'Are you sure you're okay?'

'Really, I'm fine.'

We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner of the shop didn't look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about what else he could charge to insurance.

'You see?' I said to Hamlet as we walked away.