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The land of the lost crossing humpty dumptys wall abyss. The unheard silence. Un nouveau droit pour la terre pour en finir avec lcocide pour en finir avec.
Table of contents
DCI Briggs was sitting on a low wall with a plainclothes policewoman who busied herself taking notes and did not look up. Briggs stood as Jack entered and looked at his watch in an unsubtle way. Jack answered the unasked question in the defensive, which he soon realised was a mistake. First, the deceased is the nephew of crime boss Angel DeFablio, so I wanted someone good with the press in case the media decide to have a bonanza.
Second, I'm giving you this job as a favour. You're not exactly first seed with the seventh floor at the moment. There are some people who want to see you take a fall — and I don't want that to happen. Mop it up nice and neat and give me an initial report as soon as you can.
THE JUDGMENT HOUSE
Briggs nodded in the direction of the young lady who had been waiting patiently. I'll leave you here with, er—'. Remember: I need that report as soon as possible. Got it? She dug in her pocket for a notebook, couldn't find it so counted the points off on her fingers instead. There was a pause. Jack didn't say anything so Jones, now slightly startled, continued as though he had. Too early to tell. Probably 3 a. We'll know more when we get the corpse.
We'll know when…'. I looked around but 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. 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. Don't you see? It's customary for detectives to drive unusual cars and I had a wonderful Delage-Talbot Supersport.
The idea was stolen and replaced with that dreadful Austin Allegro.
If any scenes get deleted, we'll really be stuffed. 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. 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.
TGC I had heard of: 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. I want to get the C of G's attention but not like that — we'd be crushed in less than a chapter! If that works, you can try to bend the plot slightly. And if you don't at least try what I suggest, there never will be any readers — or any Jack Spratt.
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But if things go well, you might even be in … a sequel. Change yourself, change the book — and soon, before it's too late, make the novel into something the Book Inspectorate will want to read. Instead of arguing with Briggs about letting a suspect go without charging them, I'll take my ex-wife out to lunch. We ran the scene together, Dr Singh telling me all the information that she was more used to relating to Jack.
She went into a huge amount of detail regarding the time of death and a more-than-graphic explanation of how she thought it had happened. Ballistics, trajectory, blood-splatter patterns, you name it. I was really quite glad when she finished and the chapter moved off to Jack's improvised meeting with his ex-wife.
As soon as we were done, Dr Singh turned to me and said in an anxious tone:. Eight pages of technical dialogue and haven't the foggiest what I'm talking about. I only trained at Generic college as a mother figure in domestic potboilers. If I'd known I was to be drafted to this I would have spent a few hours in a Cornwell.
Do you have any clues as to what I'm actually meant to do? 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. Mrs 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.
Chapter 1 Index
I returned to the kitchen, ibb and obb had been studying Mrs Beeton all day, and ibb was attempting steak Diane with french fries. Landen used to cook that for me and I suddenly felt very lonesome and small, so far from home I might very well be on Pluto, obb was putting the final touches to a fully decorated four-tier wedding cake. I sat down at the table and opened a package that had arrived. Jurisfiction was the policing agency within fiction that I had joined almost by accident — I had wanted to get Jack Schitt out of 'The Raven' and getting involved with the agency seemed to be the best way to learn.
Terry Clitheroe
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.
They were mostly questions about literature, which I had no problem with. Jurisfiction law was trickier and I would probably need to consult 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? 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. Go on, clear off, you imperfect speakers — bother someone else with your nonsense!
I closed the door despite their grumbling and went back to my multiple choice. I'd only just answered question forty-nine: Which of the following is not a gerund?
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It was the three witches again. I shut the door again. I wasn't superstitious and had far more important things to worry about. I had just sat down again, sipped my tea and answered the next question: Who wrote 'Toad of Toad Hall'? I stared. Granny Next. She was dressed in a spectacular outfit of blue gingham, from her dress to her overcoat and even her hat, shoes and bag. I hugged her. She smelt of Bodmin for Women.
She hugged me in return in that sort of fragile way that very elderly people do. And she was elderly — a hundred and eight, at the last count.
I got a receipt and he vanished from view. I picked up Gran's suitcase and hauled it into the Sunderland. She ruffled her feathers excitedly and rushed up to greet Gran, who always seemed to have a few spare marshmallows about her. And they went into the kitchen, talking about Mrs Beeton and the best way to deal with amorous liaisons between the scullery maid and the boot boy — it must have been an old edition. The gnashers aren't what they were. I delicately helped her out of her gingham coat and sat her down at the table.
Steak Diane would be like eating railway sleepers to her, so I started to make an omelette. They eradicated my husband too, and the one thing I needed was someone to help me through it, so that's what I'm here to do for you. Ibb laid the table and we sat down to eat ten minutes later. As Gran sucked on her omelette I tried to make conversation with ibb and obb.
The trouble was, neither of them had the requisite powers of social communication to assimilate anything from speech other than the bald facts it contained. I tried a joke I had heard from Bowden, my partner at SpecOps, about an octopus and a set of bagpipes.