The well of lost plots Read Online Free PDF Page A

instead.
    “Deceased’s name is Sonny DeFablio.”
    There was a pause. Jack didn’t say anything, so Jones, now slightly startled, continued as though he had.
    “Time of death? Too early to tell. Probably three A.M. last night, give or take an hour. We’ll know more when we get the corpse. Gun? We’ll know when . . .”
    “. . . Jack, are you okay?”
    He had sat down wearily and was staring at the ground, head in hands.
    I looked around, but both Dr. Singh, her assistants and the unnamed officers were busily getting on with their parts, unwilling, it seemed, to get embroiled — or perhaps they were just embarrassed.
    “I can’t do this anymore,” muttered Jack.
    “Sir,” I persisted, trying to ad-lib, “do you want to see the body or can we remove it?”
    “What’s the use?” sobbed the crushed protagonist. “No one is reading us; it doesn’t matter.”
    I placed my hand on his shoulder.
    “I’ve
tried
to make it more interesting,” he sobbed, “but nothing seems to work. My wife won’t speak to me, my job’s on the line, drugs are flooding into Reading and if I don’t make the narrative even remotely readable, then we all get demolished and there’s nothing left at all except an empty hole on the bookshelf and the memory of a might-have-been in the head of the author.”
    “Your wife only left you because
all
loner, maverick detectives have domestic problems,” I explained. “I’m sure she loves you really.”
    “No, no, she doesn’t,” he sobbed again. “All is lost. Don’t you see? It’s customary for detectives to drive unusual cars and I had a wonderful 1924 Delage-Talbot Supersport. The idea was stolen and replaced with that dreadful Austin Allegro. If any
scenes
get deleted, we’ll really be stuffed.”
    He paused and looked up at me. “What’s your name?”
    “Thursday Next.”
    He perked up suddenly. “Thursday Next the Outlander Jurisfiction agent apprenticed to Miss Havisham Thursday Next?”
    I nodded. News travels fast in the Well.
    An excited gleam came into his eye. “I read about you in
The Word
. Tell me, would you have any way of finding out when the Book Inspectorate are due to read our story? I’ve lined up seven three-dimensional B-2 freelancers to come in and give the book a bit of an edge — just for an hour or so. With their help we might be able to hang on to it; all I need to know is the
when
.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Spratt,” I sighed, “I’m new to all this; what exactly
is
the Council of Genres?”
    “They look after fictional legislature, dramatic conventions, mainly — a representative from every genre sits on the Council — it is
they
who decide the conventions of storytelling, and it is
they
, through the Book Inspectorate, who decide whether an unpublished book is to be kept — or demolished.”
    “Oh,” I replied, realizing that the BookWorld was governed by almost as many rules and regulations as my own, “then I can’t help you.”
    “What about Text Grand Central? Do you know anyone there?”
    TGC I
had
heard of: amongst other things, they monitored the books in the Great Library and passed any textual problems on to us at Jurisfiction, who were purely a policing agency — but I knew no more than that. I shook my head again.
    “Blast!” he muttered, staring at the ground. “I’ve applied to the C of G for a cross-genre makeover, but you might as well try and speak to the Great Panjandrum himself.”
    “Why don’t you change the book from
within
?”
    “Change without permission?” he replied, shocked at my suggestion. “That would mean rebellion. I want to get the C of G’s attention, but not like that — we’d be crushed in less than a chapter!”
    “But if the inspectorate haven’t been round yet,” I said slowly, “then how would they even know anything had changed?”
    He thought about this for a moment. “Easier said than done — if I start to fool with the narrative, it might all collapse like a pack