The well of lost plots Read Online Free PDF Page B

policing agency that works
inside
books. Under a remit from the Council of Genres and working with the intelligence-gathering capabilities of Text Grand Central, the Prose Resource Operatives at Jurisfiction comprise a mixed bag of characters, most drawn from the ranks of fiction but some, like Harris Tweed and myself, from the real world. Problems in fiction are noticed by “spotters” employed at Text Grand Central, and from there relayed to the Bellman, a ten-yearly elected figure who runs Jurisfiction under strict guidelines laid down by the Council of Genres. Jurisfiction has its own code of conduct, technical department, canteen and resident washerwoman.
    THURSDAY NEXT,
The Jurisfiction Chronicles
     
     
    DR. SINGH DIDN’T waste the opportunity, and she gathered together several other trainee pathologists she knew from the Well. They all sat spellbound as I recounted the limited information I possessed. Exhausted, I managed to escape four hours later. It was evening when I finally got home. I opened the door to the flying boat and kicked off my shoes. Pickwick rushed up to greet me and tugged excitedly at my trouser leg. I followed her through to the living room and then had to wait while she remembered where she had left her egg. We finally found it rolled behind the hi-fi and I congratulated her, despite there being no change in its appearance.
    I returned to the kitchen. ibb and obb had been studying
Mrs. Beeton’s
all day, and ibb was attempting steak diane with french fries. Landen used to cook that for me and I suddenly felt lonesome and small, so far from home I might well be on Pluto. obb was making the final touches to a fully decorated four-tier wedding cake.
    “Hello, ibb,” I said, “how’s it going?”
    “How’s what going?” replied the Generic in that annoying literal way that they spoke. “And I’m obb.”
    “Sorry — obb.”
    “Why are you sorry? Have you done something?”
    “Never mind.”
    I sat down at the table and opened a package that had arrived. It was from Miss Havisham and contained the Jurisfiction Standard Entrance Exam. I had joined Jurisfiction almost by accident — I had wanted to get Landen out of “The Raven” and getting involved with the agency seemed to be the best way to learn. But Jurisfiction had grown on me and I now felt strongly about maintaining the solidity of the written word. It was the same job I had undertaken at SpecOps, just from the other side. But it struck me that, on this occasion, Miss Havisham was wrong — I was not yet ready for full membership.
    The hefty tome consisted of five hundred questions, nearly all of them multiple choice. I noticed that the exam was self-invigilating; as soon as I opened the book a clock in the top left-hand corner started to count down from two hours. The questions were mostly about literature, which I had no problem with. Jurisfiction law was trickier and I would probably need to consult with Miss Havisham. I made a start and ten minutes later was pondering question forty-six:
Which of the following poets never used the outlawed word
majestic
in their work
? when there was a knock at the door accompanied by a peal of thunder.
    I closed the exam book and opened the door. On the jetty were three ugly, old crones dressed in filthy rags. They had bony features, rough and warty skin, and they launched into a well-rehearsed act as soon as the door opened.
    “When shall we three meet again?” said the first witch. “In Thurber, Wodehouse, or in Greene?”
    “When the hurly-burly’s done,” added the second, “when the story’s thought and spun!”
    There was a pause until the second witch nudged the third.
    “That will be Eyre the set of sun,” she said quickly.
    “Where the place?”
    “Within the text.”
    “There to meet with MsNext!”
    They stopped talking and I stared, unsure of what I was meant to do.
    “Thank you very much,” I replied, but the first witch snorted disparagingly and wedged her