The Well Of Lost Plots Part 6

This was a new approach; I ran the idea around in my head.

'Really?' I replied, slightly doubtfully.

'Of course!' Snell laughed. 'Surf pounding the s.h.i.+ngle 'Surf pounding the s.h.i.+ngle wouldn't mean diddly unless you'd seen the waves cascade on to the foresh.o.r.e, or felt the breakers tremble the beach beneath your feet, now, would it?' wouldn't mean diddly unless you'd seen the waves cascade on to the foresh.o.r.e, or felt the breakers tremble the beach beneath your feet, now, would it?'

'I suppose not.'

'Books,' said Snell, 'are a kind of magic.'

I thought about this for a moment and looked around at the chaotic fiction factory. My husband was was or or is is a novelist I had always wanted to know what went on inside his head and this, I figured, was about the nearest I'd ever get. a novelist I had always wanted to know what went on inside his head and this, I figured, was about the nearest I'd ever get. 7 We walked on, past a shop called 'A Minute Pa.s.sed'. It sold descriptive devices for marking the pa.s.sage of time this week they had a special on Seasonal Changes. We walked on, past a shop called 'A Minute Pa.s.sed'. It sold descriptive devices for marking the pa.s.sage of time this week they had a special on Seasonal Changes.

'What happens to the books which are unpublished?' I asked wondering whether the characters in Caversham Heights Caversham Heights really had so much to worry about. really had so much to worry about.

'The failure rate is pretty high,' admitted Snell, 'and not just for reasons of dubious merit. Bunyan's Bunyan's Bootsc.r.a.per Bootsc.r.a.per by John McSquurd is one of the best books ever written but it's never been out of the author's hands. Most of the dross, rejects or otherwise unpublished just languish down here in the Well until they are broken up for salvage. Others are so bad they are just demolished the words are pulled from the pages and tossed into the Text Sea.' by John McSquurd is one of the best books ever written but it's never been out of the author's hands. Most of the dross, rejects or otherwise unpublished just languish down here in the Well until they are broken up for salvage. Others are so bad they are just demolished the words are pulled from the pages and tossed into the Text Sea.'

'All the characters are just recycled like waste cardboard or something?'

Snell paused and coughed politely.

'I shouldn't waste too much sympathy on the one-dimensionals, Thursday. You'll run yourself ragged and there really isn't the time or resources to recharacterise them into anything more interesting.'

'Mr Snell, sir?'

It was a young man in an expensive suit, and he carried what looked like a very stained pillowcase with something heavy in it about the size of a melon.

'h.e.l.lo, Alfred!' said Snell, shaking the man's hand. 'Thursday, this is Garcia he has been supplying the Perkins & Snell series of books with intriguing plot devices for over ten years. Remember the unidentified torso found floating in the Humber in Dead among the Living Dead among the Living? Or the twenty-year-old corpse discovered with the bag of money bricked up in the spare room in Requiem for a Safecracker Requiem for a Safecracker?

'Of course!' I said, shaking the technician's hand. 'Good intriguing page-turning stuff. How do you do?'

'Well, thank you,' replied Garcia, turning back to Snell after smiling politely. 'I understand the next Perkins & Snell novel is in the pipeline and I have a little something that might interest you.'

He held the bag open and we looked inside. It was a head. More importantly, a severed severed head. head.

A head in a bag?' queried Snell with a frown, looking closer.

'Indeed,' murmured Garcia proudly, 'but not any any old head-in-a-bag. This one has an intriguing tattoo on the nape of the neck. You can discover it in a skip, outside your office, in a deceased suspect's deep-freeze the possibilities are endless.' old head-in-a-bag. This one has an intriguing tattoo on the nape of the neck. You can discover it in a skip, outside your office, in a deceased suspect's deep-freeze the possibilities are endless.'

Snell's eyes flashed excitedly. It was the sort of thing his next book needed after the critical savaging of Wax Lyrical for Death Wax Lyrical for Death.

'How much?' he asked.

'Three hundred,' ventured Garcia.

'Three hundred?!' exclaimed Snell. 'I could buy a dozen head-in-a-bag plot devices with that and still have change for a missing n.a.z.i gold consignment.'

Garcia laughed. 'No one's using the old "missing n.a.z.i gold consignment" plot device any more. If you don't want the head you can pa.s.s I can sell heads pretty much anywhere I like. I just came to you first because we've done business before and I like you.'

Snell thought for a moment.

'A hundred and fifty.'

'Two hundred.'

'One seven five.'

'Two hundred and I'll throw in a case of mistaken ident.i.ty, a pretty female double agent and a missing microfilm.'

'Done!'

'Pleasure doing business with you,' said Garcia as he handed over the head and took the money in return.

'Give my regards to Mr Perkins, won't you?'

He smiled, shook hands with us both, and departed.

'Oh, boy!' exclaimed Snell, excited as a kid with a new bicycle. 'Wait until Perkins sees this! Where do you think we should find it?'

I thought in all honesty that 'head-in-a-bag' plot devices were a bit lame, but being too polite to say so, I said instead: 'I liked the deep-freeze idea, myself.'

'Me too!' he enthused as we pa.s.sed a small shop whose painted headboard read: Backstories built to Backstories built to order. No job too difficult. Painful childhoods a speciality order. No job too difficult. Painful childhoods a speciality.

'Backstories?'

'Sure. Every character worth their salt has a backstory. Come on in and have a look.'

We stooped and entered the low doorway. The interior was a workshop, small and smoky. There was a workbench in the middle of the room liberally piled with gla.s.s retorts, test tubes and other chemical apparatus; the walls, I noticed, were lined with shelves that held tightly stoppered bottles containing small amounts of colourful liquids, all with labels describing varying styles of backstory, from one named idyllic childhood idyllic childhood to another ent.i.tled to another ent.i.tled valiant war record valiant war record.

'This one's nearly empty,' I observed, pointing to a large bottle with: Misguided feelings of guilt over the Misguided feelings of guilt over the death of a loved one/partner ten years previously death of a loved one/partner ten years previously written on the label. written on the label.

'Yes,' said a small man in a corduroy suit so lumpy it looked as though the tailor was still inside doing alterations, 'that one's been quite popular recently. Some are hardly used at all. Look above you.'

I looked up at the full bottles gathering dust on the shelves above. One was labelled Studied squid in Sri Studied squid in Sri Lanka Lanka and another and another Apprentice Welsh mole-catcher Apprentice Welsh mole-catcher.

'So what can I do for you?' enquired the backstoryist, gazing at us happily and rubbing his hands.

'Something for the lady? Ill-treatment at the hands of s.a.d.i.s.tic stepsisters? Traumatic incident with a wild animal? No? We've got a deal this week on unhappy love affairs; buy one and you get a younger brother with a drug problem at no extra charge.'

Snell showed the merchant his Jurisfiction badge.

'Business call, Mr Grnksghty this is apprentice Next.'

'Ah!' he said, deflating slightly. 'The law.'

'Mr Grnksghty here used to write backstories for the Brontes and Thomas Hardy,' explained Snell, placing his bag on the floor and sitting on a table edge.

'Ah, yes!' replied the man, gazing at me over the top of a pair of half-moon spectacles. 'But that was a long time ago. Charlotte Bronte, now she was was a writer. A lot of good work for her, some of it barely used-' a writer. A lot of good work for her, some of it barely used-'

'Yes, speaking,' interrupted Snell, staring vacantly at the array of gla.s.sware on the table. 'I'm with Thursday down in the Well ... What's up?'

He noticed us both staring at him and explained: 'Footnoterphone. It's Miss Havisham.'

'It's so rude,' muttered Mr Grnksghty. 'Why can't he go outside if he wants to talk on one of those things?'

'It's probably nothing but I'll go and have a look,' said Snell, staring into s.p.a.ce. He turned to look at us, saw Mr Grnksghty glaring at him and waved absently before going outside the shop, still talking.

'Where were we, young lady?'

'You were talking about Charlotte Bronte ordering backstories and then not using them.'

'Oh, yes.' The man smiled, delicately turning a tap on the apparatus and watching a small drip of an oily coloured liquid fall into a flask. 'I made the most wonderful backstory for both Edward and Bertha Rochester, but do you know she only used a very small part of it?'

'That must have been very disappointing.'

'It was.' He sighed. 'I am an artist, not a technician. But it didn't matter. I sold it lock, stock and barrel a few years back to The Wide Sarga.s.so Sea The Wide Sarga.s.so Sea. Harry Flashman from Tom Brown's Schooldays Tom Brown's Schooldays went the same way. I had Mr Pickwick's backstory for years but couldn't make a sale I donated it to the Jurisfiction museum.' went the same way. I had Mr Pickwick's backstory for years but couldn't make a sale I donated it to the Jurisfiction museum.'

'What do you make a backstory out of, Mr Grnksghty?'

'Treacle, mainly,' he replied, shaking the flask and watching the oily substance change to a gas, 'and memories. Lots Lots of memories. In fact, the treacle is really only there as a binding agent. Tell me, what do you think of this upgrade to UltraWord?' of memories. In fact, the treacle is really only there as a binding agent. Tell me, what do you think of this upgrade to UltraWord?'

'I have yet to hear about it properly,' I admitted.

'I particularly like the idea of ReadZip,' mused the small man, adding a drop of red liquid and watching the result with great interest. 'They say they will be able to crush War and Peace War and Peace into eighty-six words and still retain the scope and grandeur of the original.' into eighty-six words and still retain the scope and grandeur of the original.'

'Seeing is believing,' I replied.

'Not down here,' Mr Grnksghty corrected me. 'Down here, reading reading is believing.' is believing.'

There was a pause as I took this in.

'Mr Grnksghty?'

'Yes?'

'How do you p.r.o.nounce your name?'

At that moment Snell strolled back in.

'That was Miss Havisham,' he announced, retrieving his head. 'Thank you for your time, Mr Grnksghty come on, we're off.'

Snell led me down the corridor past more shops and traders until we arrived at the bronze-and-wood elevators. The doors opened and several small street urchins ran out holding cleft sticks with a small sc.r.a.p of paper wedged in them.

'Ideas on their way to the books-in-progress,' explained Snell as we stepped into the elevator. 'Trading must have just started. You'll find the Idea Sales and Loan department on the seventeenth floor.'

The elevator plunged rapidly downwards.

'Are you still being bothered by junk footnoterphones?'

'A little.' 8 'You'll get used to ignoring them.'

The bell sounded and the elevator doors slid open, introducing a chill wind. It was darker than the floor we had just visited and several disreputable-looking characters stared at us from the shadows. I moved to get out but Snell stopped me. He looked about and whispered: 'This is the twenty-second sub-bas.e.m.e.nt. The roughest place in the Well. A haven for cut-throats, bounty hunters, murderers, thieves, cheats, shape-s.h.i.+fters, scene-stealers, brigands and plagiarists.'

'We don't tolerate these sorts of places back home,' I murmured.

'We encourage encourage them here,' explained Snell. 'Fiction wouldn't be much fun without its fair share of scoundrels, and they have to live somewhere.' them here,' explained Snell. 'Fiction wouldn't be much fun without its fair share of scoundrels, and they have to live somewhere.'

I could feel the menace as soon as we stepped from the elevator.

Low mutters were exchanged among several hooded figures who stood close by, the faces obscured by the shadows, their hands bony and white. We walked past two large cats with eyes that seemed to dance with fire; they stared at us hungrily and licked their lips.

'Dinner,' said one, looking us both up and down. 'Shall we eat them together or one by one?'

'One by one,' said the second cat, who was slightly bigger and a good deal more fearsome, 'but we'd better wait until Big Martin gets here.'

'Oh yeah,' said the first cat, retracting his claws quickly, 'so we'd better.'

Snell had ignored the two cats completely; he glanced at his watch and said: 'We're going to the Slaughtered Lamb to visit a contact of mine. Someone has been cobbling together Plot Devices from half-damaged units that should have been condemned. It's not only illegal it's dangerous.

The last thing anyone needs is a Do we cut the red wire or the blue wire Do we cut the red wire or the blue wire? plot device going off an hour too early and ruining the suspense how many stories have you read where the bomb is defused with an hour to go?'

'Not many, I suppose.'

'You suppose right. We're here.'

The gloomy interior of the Slaughtened Lamb was shabby and smelt of beer. Three ceiling fans stirred the smoke-filled atmosphere and a band was playing a melancholy tune in one corner. The dark walls were s.p.a.ced with individual booths where sombreness was an abundant commodity; the bar in the centre seemed to be the lightest place in the room and gathered there, like moths to a light, were an odd collection of people and creatures, all chatting and talking in low voices. The atmosphere in the room was so thick with dramatic cliches you could have cut it with a knife.

'See over there?' said Snell, indicating two men who were deep in conversation.

'Yes.'

'Mr Hyde talking to Blofeld. In the next booth are Von Stalhein and Wackford Squeers. The tall guy in the cloak is Emperor Zhark, tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy. The one with the spines is Mrs Tiggy-winkle they'll be on a training a.s.signment, just like us.'

'Mrs Tiggy-winkle is an apprentice?' I asked incredulously, staring at the large hedgehog who was holding a basket of laundry and sipping delicately at a dry sherry.

'No; Zhark is the apprentice Tiggy's a full agent. She deals with children's fiction, runs the Hedge-pigs Society and does our was.h.i.+ng.'

'Hedge-pigs society?' I echoed. 'What does that that do?' do?'

'They advance hedgehogs in all branches of literature. Mrs Tiggy-winkle was the first to get star billing and she's used her position to further the lot of her species; she's got references into Kipling, Carroll, Aesop and four mentions in Shakespeare. She's also good with really stubborn stains and never singes the cuffs.'

' Tempest, Midsummer Night's Dream, Macbeth Tempest, Midsummer Night's Dream, Macbeth,' I muttered, counting them off on my fingers. 'Where's the fourth?'

' Henry VI Part 1 Henry VI Part 1, act four, scene 1: "hedge-born swaine".'

'I always thought that was an insult, not a hedgehog,' I observed. ' Swaine Swaine can be a can be a country lad country lad just as easily as a just as easily as a pig pig perhaps more so.' perhaps more so.'

Snell sighed. 'Well, we've given her the benefit of the doubt it helps with the indignity of being used as a croquet ball in Alice Alice. Don't mention Tolstoy or Berlin when she's about, either conversation with Tiggy is easier when you avoid talk of theoretical sociological divisions and stick to the question of was.h.i.+ng temperatures for woollens.'

'I'll remember that,' I murmured. 'The bar doesn't look so bad with all those pot plants scattered around, does it?'