One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [124]
“We’re not going anywhere until we load some coal,” said the captain.
I stepped off the steamer and onto the rickety old jetty, Drake at my side. We walked slowly into the town. Drake looked about anxiously, but not, I realized, about the deserted Middle Station.
“You’ll keep an eye out for crocodiles, won’t you?” I asked.
“As long as you watch my back for poison darts.”
We came across the first body near the mailbox on the corner. There was an ugly wound in the middle of his chest, and the small letters and words that made up his existence had been caught by the breeze and blown into the fishing nets set up to dry. We looked around and noticed more bodies and the detritus of conflict: discarded rubber chickens, feather dusters, strings of silk flags, spinning bow ties and custard-pie shrapnel that somehow seemed sadder and less funny than usual.
“Is this a garrison town?” I asked.
“No,” replied the adventurer.
“Then what’s a lance corporal of the Fourteenth Motorized Clown doing up here?”
The corpse was indeed a member of Comedy’s frontline troops. He had orange hair, a bulbous red nose, and he was wearing camouflage battle dress, along with a pair of size-twenty-eight shoes. Not much good for marching and a hangover from their days as an Alpine regiment.
Drake placed his hand on the clown’s bright red nose.
“Still warm,” he said, “probably been dead less than an hour. Any thoughts?”
“I don’t know,” I said, picking up a nurse’s hat from the ground. A little farther on, a stethoscope was lying broken in the dust. “But it wasn’t just clowns who died here today.”
We walked some more and came across a dozen or so other bodies. All clowns, all dead and none meant to be here. Bawdy Romp was within Racy Novel’s control and officially a demilitarized zone.
“This doesn’t make sense,” said Drake. “Comedy never had any beef with Racy Novel. Quite the reverse—they actually got on very well. Without Racy Novel, Comedy would be very poor indeed—especially for the stand-ups.”
“Let’s not hang around. Where did the captain say the coal was?”
We walked deeper into the station and saw more evidence of a pitched battle having taken place not long before. We found the remains of several burned-out clown cars; despite their being able to drive in either direction and having a device for shedding all the body work in order to lighten the vehicle for a speedy getaway, it hadn’t done any good. There was evidence of atrocities, too. Medical staff had been killed. I noted several pretty nurses and a handsome doctor lying in a doorway, and several crash carts were strewn about. There were a few dead rustic serving wenches, too, a ripped bodice and a couple of horses with ruggedly handsome and now very dead riders lying in the road amidst scorched brickwork and smoking rubble. We came across more dead clowns; it seemed as though an entire company had been wiped out.
“Looks like someone was making sure Comedy couldn’t come to Racy Novel’s aid,” observed Drake.
“It makes me wonder why we’re bothering with peace talks. Crocodile.”
“What?”
“Behind you.”
Drake jumped out of the way as the crocodile’s jaws snapped shut. “Thank you.”
“Now do you believe you might be the fodder?” I asked.
Drake thought for a moment. “He could have been trying to eat his way through me to get to you.”
“Sure,” I said with a smile, “and while we’re on the subject: If I were the fodder, why didn’t you warn me? I warned you.”
“Because I . . . didn’t want to ruin your day?”
“How very generous of you.”
We found the coal heap amidst a few more civilians—this time pretty secretaries who had died in the arms of their bosses. We filled a couple of wheelbarrows with coal before returning to the steamer. As soon as we were aboard, the crew slipped the moorings and the captain ordered, “Astern slow,” and swung the bows into the limpid river. We took the left branch up the tributary known as the Innuendo, and pretty soon the steamer was at full speed once more. Despite others’ misgivings, Jobsworth seemed