Something rotten by Jasper Fforde

cautiously over a high wall. I was right. There was someone watching my mother’s house. He was dressed too warmly for summer and was half hidden in the buddleia. My foot slipped on the dustbin, and I made a noise. The lurker looked around, saw me and took flight. I jumped over the wall and gave chase. It was easier than I thought. He wasn’t terribly fit, and I caught up with him as he tried rather pathetically to climb a wall. Pulling the man down, I upset his small duffel bag, and out poured an array of battered notebooks, a camera, a small pair of binoculars and several copies of the SpecOps-27 Gazette, much annotated in red pen.
    “Ow, ow, ow, get off!” he said. “You’re hurting!”
    I twisted his arm, and he dropped to his knees. I was just patting his pockets for a weapon when another man, dressed not unlike the first, came charging out from behind an abandoned car, holding aloft a tree branch. I spun, dodged the blow, and as the second man’s momentum carried him on, I pushed him hard with my foot, and he slammed headfirst into a wall and collapsed unconscious.
    The first man was unarmed, so I made sure his unconscious friend was also unarmed—and wasn’t going to choke on his blood or teeth or something.
    “I know you’re not SpecOps,” I observed, “because you’re both way too crap. Goliath?”
    The first man got slowly to his feet and was looking curiously at me, rubbing his arm where I had twisted it. He was a big man, but not an unkindly-looking one. He had short dark hair and a large mole on his chin. I had broken his spectacles; he didn’t look Goliath, but I had been wrong before.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Next. I’ve been waiting for you for a long long time.”
    “I’ve been away.”
    “Since January 1986. I’ve waited nearly two and a half years to see you.”
    “And why would you do a thing like that?”
    “Because,” said the man, producing an identity badge from his pocket and handing it over, “I am your officially sanctioned stalker. ”
    I looked at the badge. It was true enough; he was allocated to me. All 100 percent legit, and I didn’t have a say in it. The whole stalker thing was licensed by SpecOps-33, the Entertainments Facilitation Department, who had drawn up specific rules with the Amalgamated Union of Stalkers as to who is allowed to stalk whom. It helps to regulate a historically dark business and also grades stalkers according to skill and perseverance. My stalker was an impressive Grade-1, the sort who are permitted to stalk the really big celebrities. And that made me suspicious.
    “A Grade-1?” I queried. “Should I be flattered? I don’t suppose I’m anything above a Grade-8.”
    “Not nearly that high,” agreed my stalker. “More like a Grade- 12. But I’ve got a hunch you’re going to get bigger. I latched on to Lola Vavoom in the sixties when she was just a bit part in The Streets of Wootton Bassett and stalked her for nineteen years, man and boy. I only gave her up to move on to Buck Stallion. When she heard, she sent me a glass tankard with THANK YOU FOR A GREAT STALK, LOLA etched onto it. Have you ever met her?”
    “Once, Mr. . . .” I looked at the pass before handing it back. “De Floss. Interesting name. Any relation to Candice?”
    “The author? In my dreams,” replied the stalker, rolling his eyes. “But since I’d like us to be friends, do please call me Millon.”
    “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!” laughed Millon. “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