The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“Was there what?”

“Cake.”

“Generally speaking, yes.”

Dr. Chumley rubbed his temples. “I think I preferred Spike’s sharpened spade earlier. At least that had a sort of uncomplicated creeping menace about it. The BookWorld? It’s all very confusing.”

“I’ve spent most of my life confused,” I replied. “You get used to it after a while. There’s a lot to be said about merely having a hazy idea of what’s going on but generally reaching the right outcome by following broad policy outlines. In fact, I’ve a sneaky suspicion that it’s the only way of getting things done. Once the horror and unpredictability of unintended consequences gets a hold, even the best-intentioned and noblest of plans generally descend to mayhem, confusion and despair.”

“I see,” said Dr. Chumley, tearing off another certificate and scrunching it up. “I’m going to lower you to a NUT-3: ‘mildly aberrant behavior with occasional long stretches of lucidity.’”

It still wasn’t enough.

“So the whole BookWorld thing doesn’t make me nuts?” I asked, semisarcastically.

“We do try to avoid that particular word when making a diagnosis in our profession,” said Dr. Chumley with a sigh, “but sometimes I wonder if the human race isn’t collectively as mad as a sack of doorknobs. Where does that put me and my profession? Trying to sort out the real nutjobs from the partial nutjobs? Or just in a state of muddled damage limitation?”

He took another deep breath and slumped facedown on the table.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you that. We’re really just meant to nod and say things like ‘Aha’ and ‘Go on’ and ‘How does that make you feel?’ It would have helped me a lot more if Spike had told me he baked novelty cakes rather than killed the undead. And no, it doesn’t make you nuts—as you suggest, it might actually be true.”

Damn. He partially believed me.

“Before I worked here,” he said with another sigh, “I would certainly have thought you dangerously delusional, but the SpecOps standards of reality are pretty broad. Here’s an example: I had Captain Henshaw of the Odd Squad in here yesterday. But it wasn’t our Captain Henshaw, it was Captain HenshawF76+, apparently on an important trade delegation from Reality-F76+, where everything is pretty much identical to here—only everyone has two heads.”

“That’s a bigger and more bizarre claim than the BookWorld?”

“Not really, because HenshawF76+ actually had two heads.”

“Did he argue with himself? I always wondered about that.”

“Quite a lot actually— that’s why he came to see me. But there they were. Two heads. So, you see, what you say might actually be true. Might not be. But might. There you have it. NUT-3.”

It wasn’t going well. I had lose that extra ranking. NUT-4 or nothing.

“I have something else I need to share,” I said.

“Yes?” replied Dr. Chumley from where he was still resting facedown on the table.

“Yes. I . . . think I’m pregnant with an elephant.”

“An elephant?” he asked, lifting his face from the table to stare at me.

“Yes—foisted on me by an overamorous server at Greggs.”

He shook his head sadly. “Now I know you’re trying to pull a fast one. Everyone uses the ‘pregnant with an elephant’ gambit to be downranked. I think Victor Analogy used it first.”

He smiled triumphantly and pulled the pad of certificates toward him again.

“You’re a NUT-3, my girl, and nothing you can say will change my mind.”

“What about the fact that I think my mother was a snail named Andrew?”

“ NUT-3,” he said firmly, and continued to write.

“That I have a dodo named Pickwick, who is the oldest in existence?”

“Perfectly plausible,” he replied.