Lost in a good book by Jasper Fforde Page B

on.
    “We want to be real. ”
    “Day’s hurt?” murmured the squat woman at the back, sucking the end of her pencil and staring at the crossword.
    “What did you say?” I said.
    “Day’s hurt?” she repeated, oblivious to the situation. “Nine down; eight letters—I think it’s an anagram.”
    “I have no idea,” I replied before returning my attention to Kaylieu. “What do you mean, real? ”
    “We are not animals,” announced the once extinct cousin of mankind. “We want to be a protected species—like dodo, mammoth—and you. We want to speak to head man at Goliath and someone from Toad News.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
    I walked to the back of the shuttle and picked up the emergency phone.
    “Hello?” I said to the operator. “This is Thursday Next, SO-27. We have a situation in shuttle number—ah—6174.”
    When I told the operator what was going on she took a sharp intake of breath and asked how many people were with me and whether anyone was hurt.
    “Seven females, myself and the driver; we are all fine.”
    “Don’t forget Pixie Frou-Frou,” said the large woman with the overdone makeup.
    “And one Pekinese.”
    The operator told me they were clearing all the tracks ahead, we would have to keep calm and she would call back. I tried to tell her that it wasn’t a bad situation, but she had rung off.
    I sat down close to the neanderthal again. Jaw fixed, he was staring intently ahead, knuckles white on the throttle lever. We approached the Wanborough junction, crossed the M4 and were diverted west. The passenger directly behind me, a shy-looking girl in her late teens and dressed in a De La Mare label sweatshirt, caught my eye; she looked frightened.
    I smiled to try to put her at ease.
    “What’s your name?” I asked her.
    “Irma,” she replied in a small voice. “Irma Cohen.”
    “Poppycock!” said the umbrella woman. “ I’m Irma Cohen!”
    “So am I,” said the woman with the Peke.
    “And me!” exclaimed the thin woman at the back. It seemed after a short period of frenzied cries of “Ooh fancy that!” and “Well I never!” that everyone in the Skyrail except me and Kaylieu and Pixie Frou-Frou was called Irma Cohen. Some of them were even vaguely related. It was an unnerving coincidence—for today, the best yet.
    “Thursday,” announced the squat woman.
    “Yes?”
    But she wasn’t talking to me; she was writing in the answer: Day’s hurt—Thursday —it was an anagram.
    The emergency phone rang.
    “This is Diana Thuntress, trained negotiator for SpecOps-9,” said a businesslike voice. “Who is this?”
    “Di, it’s me, Thursday.”
    There was a pause.
    “Hello Thursday. Saw you on the telly last night. Trouble seems to follow you around, doesn’t it? What’s it like in there?”
    I looked at the small and unconcerned crowd of commuters who were showing each other pictures of their children. Pixie Frou-Frou had fallen asleep and the Irma Cohen with the crossword had announced the clue for six across: “The parting bargain?”
    “They’re fine. A little bored, but not hurt.”
    “What does the perp want?”
    “He wants to talk to someone at Goliath about species self-ownership.”
    “Wait—he’s neanderthal? ”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s not possible! A neanderthal being violent?”
    “There’s no violence up here, Di—just desperation.”
    “Shit,” muttered Thuntress. “What do I know about dealing with thals? We’ll have to get one of the SpecOps neanderthals in.”
    “He also wants to see a reporter from Toad News.”
    There was silence on the other end of the phone.
    “Di?”
    “Yes?”
    “What can I tell Kaylieu?”
    “Tell him that—er—Toad News are supplying a car to take him to the Goliath Genetic Labs in the Preselli Mountains where Goliath’s governor, chief geneticist and a team of lawyers will be waiting to agree to terms.”
    As lies go, it was a real corker.
    “But is that right?” I asked.
    “There is no