Something rotten (22 page)

“Well,” he said, unsure of quite how to put it, “you know the sixth in the Emperor Zhark series is being written as we speak?”

“
Zhark: End of Empire
? Yes, I’d heard that. What’s the problem?”

“Well, I’ve just read the advanced plotline, and it seems that I’m going to be vanquished by the Galactic Freedom Alliance.”

“I’m sorry, Emperor, I’m not sure I see your point—are you concerned about losing your empire?”

He moved closer. “If the story calls for it, I guess not. But it’s what happens to me at the end that I have a few problems with. I don’t mind being cast adrift in space on the imperial yacht or left marooned on an empty planet, but my writer has planned . . .
a public execution
.”

He stared at me, shocked by the enormity of it all.

“If that’s what he has planned—”

“Thursday, you don’t understand. I’m going to be killed off—
written out!
I’m not sure I can take that kind of rejection.”

“Emperor,” I said, “if a character has run its course, then it’s run its course. What do you want me to do? Go and talk the author out of it?”

“Would you?” replied Zhark, opening his eyes wide. “Would you really do that?”

“No. You can’t have characters trying to tell their authors what to write in their books. Besides, within your books you are truly evil and need to be punished.”

Zhark pulled himself up to his full height. “I see,” he said at length. “Well, I might decide to take
drastic
action if you don’t at least
attempt
to persuade Mr. Paige. And besides, I’m not
really
evil—I’m just written that way.”

“If I hear any more of this nonsense,” I replied, beginning to get annoyed, “I will have you placed under book arrest and charged with incitement to mutiny for what you’ve just told me.”

“Oh, crumbs,” he said, suddenly deflated. “You can, can’t you?”

“I can. I won’t because I can’t be bothered, but if I hear anything more about this, I will take steps—do you understand?”

“Yes,” replied Zhark meekly and, without another word, vanished.

19.

Cloned Will Hunting

Opposition Leader Mildly Criticizes Kaine

Opposition leader Mr. Redmond van de Poste lightly attacked Yorrick Kaine’s government yesterday over the possible failure to adequately address the nation’s economic woes. Mr. van de Poste suggested that the Danish were “no more guilty of attacking this country than the Swedes” and then went on to question Kaine’s independence due to his close sponsorship ties with the Goliath Corporation. In reply Chancellor Kaine thanked van de Poste for alerting him to the Swedes, who were “doubtless up to something,” and pointed out that Mr. van de Poste himself was sponsored by the Toast Marketing Board.

Article in
The Gadfly,
July 17, 1988

S
unday was meant to be a day off but it didn’t really seem like it. I played golf with Braxton in the morning and outside work he was as amiable a gent as I could possibly hope to meet. He delighted in showing me the rudiments of golf and once or twice I hit the ball quite well—when it made the
thwack
noise and flew away as straight as a die I suddenly realized what all the fuss was about. It wasn’t all fun and games, though—Braxton had been leaned on by Flanker who, I assume, had been leaned on by somebody else higher up. In between putting practice and attempting to get my ball out of the bunker, Braxton confided that he couldn’t hold off Flanker forever with his empty promise of a report on my alleged Welsh cheese activities, and if I knew what was good for me I would have to at least
try
and look for banned books with SO-14. I promised I would and then joined him for a drink at the nineteenth hole where we were regaled with stories by a large man with a red nose who was, apparently, the Oldest Member.

I was awakened Monday morning by a burbling noise from Friday. He was standing up in his cot and trying to grasp the curtain, which was out of his reach. He said that now that I was awake I could do a lot worse than take him downstairs, where he could play whilst I made some breakfast. Well, he didn’t use those
precise
words, of course—he said something more along the lines of, “Reprehenderit in voluptate velit id est mollit,” but I knew what he meant.

I couldn’t think of any good reason not to, so I pulled on my dressing gown and took the little fellow downstairs, pondering on quite who, if anyone, was going to look after him today. After I nearly got into a fight with Jack Schitt in front of Friday, I wasn’t sure he should witness all that his mum got up to.

My own mother was already up.

“Good morning, Mother,” I said cheerfully, “and how are you today?”

“I’m afraid not during the morning,” she said, divining my unasked question instantly, “but I can probably manage from teatime onwards.”

“I’d appreciate it,” I replied, looking at
The Mole
as I put on the porridge. Kaine had given an ultimatum to the Danish: either the government in Denmark ended all its efforts to destabilize England and undermine our economy, or England would have no choice but to recall our ambassador. The Danish had replied that they didn’t know what Kaine was talking about and demanded that the trade ban on Danish goods be lifted. Kaine responded angrily, made all sorts of counterclaims, put a 200 percent tariff on Danish bacon imports and closed all avenues of communication.

“Duis aute irure dolor est!” yelled Friday.

“Keep your hair on,” I replied, “it’s coming.”

“Plink!” said Alan angrily, gesturing towards his supper dish indignantly.

“Wait your turn,” I told him.

“Plink,
PLINK!
” he replied in a threatening tone, taking a step closer and opening his beak threateningly.

“Try to bite me,” I told him, “and you’ll be finding a new owner from the front window of Pete & Dave’s!”

Alan figured out this was a threat and closed his beak. Pete & Dave’s was the local reengineered-pet store, and I was serious. He’d already tried to bite my mother, and even the local dogs were giving him a wide berth.

At that moment Joffy opened the back door and walked in. But he wasn’t alone. He was with something that I can only describe as an untidy bag of thin bones covered in dirty skin and a rough blanket.

“Ah!” said Joffy. “Mum and Sis. Just the ticket. This is St. Zvlkx. Your Grace, this is my mother, Mrs. Next, and my sister, Thursday.”

St. Zvlkx looked at me suspiciously from behind a heavy curtain of oily black hair.

“Welcome to Swindon, Mr. Zvlkx,” said my mother, curtsying politely. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“He only speaks Old English,” put in Joffy. “Here, let me translate.”

“Oi, pigface—are you going to eat or what?”

“Ahh!” said the monk, and sat down at the table. Friday stared at him a little dubiously, then started to jabber Lorem Ipsum at him while the monk stared at
him
dubiously.

“How’s it all going?” I asked.

“Pretty good,” replied Joffy, pouring some coffee for himself and St. Zvlkx. “He’s shooting a commercial this morning for the Toast Marketing Board and will be on
The Adrian Lush Show
at four. He’s also guest speaker at the Swindon Dermatologists’ Convention at the Finis; apparently some of his skin complaints are unknown to science. I thought I’d bring him around to see you—he’s full of wisdom, you know.”

“It’s barely eight in the morning!” said Mum.

“St. Zvlkx rises with the dawn as a penance,” Joffy explained. “He spent all of Sunday pushing a peanut around the Brunel Centre with his nose.”

“I spent it playing golf with Braxton Hicks.”

“How did you do?”

“Okay, I think. My croquet-playing skills stopped me making a complete arse of myself. Did you know that Braxton had six kids?”

“Well, how about some wisdom, then?” asked my mother brightly. “I’m very big on thirteenth-century sagacity.”

“Okay,” said Joffy. “Oi! Make yourself useful and giue us some wisdom, you old fart.”

“Poke it up your arse.”

“What did he say?”

“Er . . . he said he would meditate upon it.”

“Well,” said my mother, who was nothing if not hospitable and could just about make breakfast without consulting the recipe book, “since you are our guest, Mr. Zvlkx, what would you like for breakfast?”

St. Zvlkx stared at her.

“Eat,” repeated my mother, making biting gestures. This seemed to do the trick.

“Your mother has firm breasts for a middle-aged woman, orblike and defying grauity. I should like to play with them, as a baker plays with dough.”

“What did he say?”

“He says he’d be very grateful for bacon and eggs,” replied Joffy quickly, turning to St. Zvlkx and saying, “Any more crap out of you, sunshine, and I’ll lock you in the cellar tomorrow night as well.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I thanked him for his attendance in your home.”

“Ah.”

Mum put the big frying pan on the cooker and broke some eggs into it, followed by large rashers of bacon. Pretty soon the smell of bacon pervaded the house, something that attracted not only a sleepwalking DH-82 but also Hamlet and Lady Hamilton, who had given up pretending they weren’t sleeping together.

“Hubba hubba,” said St. Zvlkx as soon as Emma entered. “Who’s the bunny with the scrummy hooters?”

“He wishes you . . . um . . . both good morrow,” said Joffy, visibly shaken. “St. Zulkx, this is Lady Hamilton and Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”

“If you’re giuing away one of those puppies,” continued St. Zvlkx, staring at Emma’s cleavage, “I’ll haue the one with the brown nose.”

“Good morning,” said Hamlet without smiling.
“Any more bad language against the good Lady Hamilton and I’ll take you outside and make your quietus with a bare bodkin.”

“What did the Prince say?” asked St. Zvlkx.

“Yes,” said Joffy, “what did he say?”

“It’s
Courier Bold,
” I told him, “the traditional language of the BookWorld. He said that he would be failing in his duty as a gentleman if he allowed Zvlkx to show any disrespect to Lady Hamilton.”

“What did your sister say?” asked St. Zvlkx.

“She said that if you insult Hamlet’s bird again, your nose will be two foot wide across your face.”

“Oh.”

“Well,” said my mother, “this is turning out to be a
very
pleasant morning!”

“In that case,” asked Joffy, sensing that the time was just right, “could St. Zvlkx stay here until midday? I’ve got to give a sermon to the Sisters of Eternal Punctuality at ten, and if I’m late, they throw their prayer books at me.”

“No can do, oh, son-my-son,” said my mother, flipping the bacon. “Why not take St. Zvlkx with you? I’m sure the nuns will be impressed by his piety.”

“Did someone mention nuns?” asked St. Zvlkx, looking around eagerly.

“How you got to be a saint I haue no idea,” chided Joffy. “Another peep out of you and I’ll personally kick your uulgar arse all the way back to the thirteenth century.”

St. Zvlkx shrugged, wolfed down his bacon and eggs with his hands and then burped loudly. Friday did the same and collapsed into a fit of giggles.

They all left soon after. Joffy wouldn’t mind Friday, and Zvlkx certainly couldn’t, so there was nothing for it. As soon as Mum had found her hat, coat and keys and gone out, I rushed upstairs, dressed, then read myself into
Bradshaw Defies the Kaiser
to ask Melanie if she would look after Friday until teatime. Mum said she would be out the whole day, and since Hamlet already knew that Melanie was a gorilla and neither Emma nor Bismarck could
exactly
complain since they were long-dead historical figures themselves, I thought it a safe bet. It was against regulations, but with Hamlet and the world facing an uncertain future, I was past caring.

Melanie happily agreed, and once she had changed into a yellow polka-dot dress, I brought her out of the BookWorld to my mother’s front room, which she thought very smart, especially the festoon curtains. She was pulling the cord to watch the curtains rise and fall when Emma walked in.

“Lady Hamilton,” I announced, “this is Melanie Bradshaw.” Mel put out a large hand, and Emma shook it nervously, as though expecting Melanie to bite her or something.

“How . . . how do you do?” she stammered. “I’ve never been introduced to a monkey before.”

“Ape,” corrected Melanie helpfully. “Monkeys generally have tails, are truly arboreal and belong to the families Hylobatidae, Cebidae and Ceropithecidae. You and I and all the great apes are Pongidae. I’m a gorilla. Well,
strictly
speaking, I’m a mountain gorilla—
Gorilla gorilla beringei—
which lives on the slopes of the Virunga volcanoes—we used to call it British East Africa, but I’m not sure what it is now. Have you ever been there?”

“No.”

“Charming place. That’s where Trafford—my husband—and I met. He was with his gun bearers hacking his way through the undergrowth during the backstory to
Bradshaw Hunts Big Game
(Collins, 1878, 4/6, illustrated), and he slipped from the path and fell twenty feet into the ravine below, where I was taking a bath.”

She picked up Friday in her massive arms, and he chortled with delight.

“Well, I was most
dreadfully
embarrassed. I mean, I was sitting there in the running water without a stitch on, but—and I’ll always remember this—Trafford politely apologized and turned his back so I could nip into the bushes and get dressed. I came out to ask him if he might want directions back to civilization—Africa was quite unexplored then, you know—and we got to chatting. Well, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, he had asked me out to dinner. We’ve been together ever since. Does that sound silly to you?”

Emma thought about how her relationship with Admiral Lord Nelson was lampooned mercilessly in the press. “No, I think that sounds really quite romantic.”