One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [123]
“Very good, ma’am. I’ll make inquiries.”
36.
Middle Station
For those of you who have tired of the glitzy world of shopping and inappropriate boyfriends in Chick Lit, a trip to Dubious Lifestyle Advice might be the next step. An hour in the hallowed halls of invented ills will leave you with at least ten problems you never knew you had, or even knew existed.
Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (7th edition)
It took us an hour to steam through Comedy, and whilst mostly light and airy and heard-it-beforeish, the atmosphere became more strained and intimidating as we chugged slowly through Mother-in-Law Jokes and Sexist Banter. Despite being advised to remain out of sight, I elected to stay on deck and brazen out the worst abuses that came shouted unseen from the thick trees that covered the riverbank. The two ladies of negotiable affection had no difficulty with the comments, having heard much worse before, and simply retorted with aplomb—delicately countering the more vulgar insinuations with amusing attacks on the male psyche and various aspersions on their manhood or ability.
We came across the Middle Station at noon. The small trading town was right on the point where the Double Entendre River becomes the Innuendo, and although we had been traveling through the buffer genre of Bawdy Romp, replete with amusing sketches of people running in and out of each other’s bedrooms in a retro-amusing manner, we were now very much within the influence of Racy Novel, and we all knew it. The first part of the journey had been a pleasing chug up the river, but now we were here for business, and a sense of brooding introspection had fallen upon the boat.
The arrival of the paddle steamer at the Middle Station was welcomed not by sound but by silence. The constant tramp-tramp-tramp of the engines, for five hours a constant background chorus, made things seem deafeningly quiet when the engines were stopped. I stood on the foredeck as the steamer drifted towards the jetty. The Middle Station, usually a throbbing hub of activity, seemed deserted. Drake stood next to me, his hand on the butt of his revolver.
“I’m going ashore to check this out,” I said, “and I think it would be better if you stayed here.”
“Au contraire, Miss Next. It is you who will be staying here.” There seemed no easy way to say this, so I came right out with it.
“Drake,” I said in a quiet voice, “you’re the fodder, due for a tragic yet potentially heroic end.”
He looked at me for a moment. “It’s very good of you to warn me, but that’s not how I see it.”
“You think it’s someone else?”
“I think the fodder is you, Thursday.”
“No it’s not.”
“What are you if you’re not the fodder?”
“I’m the impostor.”
“You . . . could be the impostor and the fodder.”
“The unions would never allow it.”
“They might.”
“Look,” I said, “we could argue this all day, but here’s the thing: You graduated only this morning with a minimal backstory. I’ve been working the BookWorld for over three years—who’s most likely to cop it in the next few hours?”
“You might just think you’ve been working the BookWorld for three years. It could be your backstory.”
“Okay,” I said, beginning to get angry, “we’ll both go out there and see who gets eaten by a crocodile or gets a poison dart in the eye. Then we’ll know.”
“Deal.”
The rest of the peace delegation had joined us on deck, and they were staring silently towards the Middle Station. As we drew closer, we could see that the houses had been recently burned, for wisps of smoke hung in the air with the faint smell of scorched custard. We waited for the steamer to drift towards the jetty, until it touched with a faint bump. The crew made the steamer fast before jumping back onto the boat, and we watched and waited as the steamer slowly swung around in the current. There was not a single sign of life anywhere in the station.
“Well,” said Colonel Barksdale after a few minutes, “I’ve seen enough—doubtless skirmishers from Racy Novel causing trouble. Let’s steam on deeper into the