Something rotten by Jasper Fforde Page A

stalk me. Come to think of it, he’s a Grade-3 stalker, so it’s possible he’s got a stalker of his own—haven’t you heard the poem?”
    Before I could stop him, he started to recite:
“. . . And so the tabloids do but say,
that stalkers on other stalkers prey,
and these have smaller stalkers to stalk ’em
and so proceed, ad infinitum. . . .”

    “No, I hadn’t heard that one,” I mused as the second stalker placed a handkerchief to his bleeding lip.
    “Miss Next, this is Adam Gnusense. Adam, Miss Next.”
    He waved weakly at me, looked at the bloodied handkerchief and sighed mournfully. I felt rather remorseful all of a sudden.
    “Sorry to hit you, Mr. Gnusense, “ I said apologetically. “I didn’t know what either of you were up to.”
    “Occupational hazard, Miss Next.”
    “Hey, Adam,” said Millon, suddenly sounding enthusiastic, “do you have your own stalker yet?”
    “Somewhere,” said Gnusense looking around, “a Grade-34 loser. The sad bastard was rummaging through my bins last night. Passé or what!”
    “Kids—tsk,” said Millon. “It might have been de rigueur in the sixties, but the modern stalker is much more subtle. Long vigils, copious notes, timed entry and exits, telephoto lenses.”
    “We live in sad times,” agreed Adam, shaking his head sadly. “Must be off. I said I’d keep a close eye on Adrian Lush for a friend.”
    He stood up and shambled slowly away down the alley, stumbling on discarded beer cans.
    “Not a great talker is old Adam,” said Millon in a whisper, “but sticks to his target like a limpet. You wouldn’t catch him rummaging through dustbins—unless he was giving a master class for a few of the young pups, of course. Tell me, Miss Next, but where have you been for the past two and a half years? It’s been a bit dull here—after the first eighteen months of you not showing up, I’d reduced my stalking to only three nights a week.”
    “You’d never believe me.”
    “You’d be surprised what I can believe. Aside from stalking I’ve just finished my new book, A Short History of the Special Operations Network . I’m also editor of Conspiracy Theorist magazine. In between pieces on the very tangible link between Goliath and Yorrick Kaine and the existence of a mysterious beast known only as Guinzilla, we’ve run several articles devoted entirely to you and that Jane Eyre thing. We’d love to do a piece on your uncle Mycroft’s work, too. Even though we know almost nothing, the conspiracy network is alive with healthy half-truths, lies and supposition. Did he really build an LCD cloaking device for cars?”
    “Sort of.”
    “And translating carbon paper?”
    “He called it rossetionery.”
    “And what about the Ovinator? Conspiracy Theorist devotes several pages of unsubstantiated rumors to this one invention alone.”
    “I don’t know. Some sort of machine for cooking eggs, perhaps? Is there anything you don’t know about my family?”
    “Not a lot. I’m thinking of writing a biography about you. How about Thursday Next: A Biography ?”
    “The title? Way too imaginative.”
    “So I have your permission?”
    “No, but if you can put a dossier together on Yorrick Kaine, I’ll tell you all about Aornis Hades.”
    “Acheron’s little sister? It’s a deal! Are you sure I can’t write your biography? I’ve already made a start.”
    “Positive. If you find anything, knock on my door.”
    “I can’t. There’s a blanket restraining order on all members of the Amalgamated Union of Stalkers. We’re not allowed within a hundred yards of your place of residence.”
    I sighed. “All right, just wave when I come out.”
    De Floss readily agreed to that plan, and I left him rearranging his notebook, binoculars and camera and starting to make copious notes on his first encounter with me. I couldn’t get rid of the poor deluded fool, but a stalker just might— might —be an ally.

3.
    Evade the Question Time
Perfidious Danes