Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'What?'

'This is exactly what I mean. A lot happens in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from now; as it is it means nothing – after all, not every incident in life has a meaning.'

'Tell that to the scholars who study me,' Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before adding: 'If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Over-long, detailed to the point of distraction – and ultimately without a major resolution.'

'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'that's exactly what we like about it.'

We reached the SpecOps building. It was of a sensible Germanic design, built during the occupation, and it was here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with Acheron Hades' plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of Jane Eyre. Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.

'Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?'

'Please.'

We walked into the Cafe Goliathe opposite. The same one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour before he was eradicated.

'Hey!' said the man behind the counter, who seemed somehow familiar. 'We don't serve that kind in here!'

'What kind?'

'The Danish kind.'

Goliath were obviously working with Kaine on this particular nonsense.

'He's not Danish. He's my cousin Eddie from Wolverhampton.'

'Really? Then why is he dressed like Hamlet?'

I thought quickly.

'Because . . . he's insane. Isn't that right, Cousin Eddie?'

'Yes,' said Hamlet, to whom feigning madness was not much of a problem. 'When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.'

'See?'

'Well, that's all right, then.'

I started as I realised why he seemed familiar. It was Mr Cheese, one of the Goliath corporate bullies that Brik Schitt-Hawse had employed. He and his partner Mr Chalk had made my life difficult before I left. He didn't have his goatee any more but it was definitely him. Undercover? I doubted it – his name was on his Cafe Goliathe badge with, I noted, two gold stars – one for washing up and the other for latte frothing. But he didn't show any sign of recognising me.

'What will you have, Ham— I mean, Cousin Eddie?'

'What is there?'

'Espresso, Mocha, Latte, White Mocha, Hot Chocolate, Decaff, Recaff, Nocaff, Somecaff, Extracaff, Goliachmo™ . . . what's the matter?'

Hamlet had started to tremble, a look of pain and hopelessness on his face as he stared wild-eyed at the huge choice laid out in front of him.

'To espresso or to latte, that is the question,' he muttered, his free will evaporating rapidly. I had asked Hamlet for something he couldn't easily supply: a decision. 'Whether ’tis tastier on the palette to choose white mocha over plain,' he continued in a rapid garble, 'or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless choice, end one's heartache—'

'Cousin Eddie!' I said sharply. 'Cut it out!'

'To froth, to sprinkle, perchance to drink, and in that—'

'He'll have a mocha with extra cream, please.'

Hamlet stopped abruptly once the burden of decision was taken from him.

'Sorry,' he said, rubbing his temples, 'I don't know what came over me. All of a sudden I had this overwhelming desire to talk for a very long time without actually doing anything. Is that normal?'