The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [142]
I sighed. My untold story looked set to remain exactly that. Adrian Lush, supposed champion of free speech, the man who had dared to air the grievances felt by the neanderthal, the first to suggest publicly that the Goliath Corporation “had shortcomings,” was about to have his nails well and truly clipped.
“Colonel Flanker you’ve already met,” went on Braxton without drawing breath.
I eyed the man suspiciously. I knew him well enough. He was at SpecOps-1, the division that polices SpecOps itself. He had interviewed me about the night I had first tried to tackle master criminal Acheron Hades—the night Snood and Tamworth died. He tried to smile several times but eventually gave up and offered his hand for me to shake instead.
“This is Colonel Rabone,” carried on Braxton. “She is head of Combined Forces Liaison.” I shook hands with the colonel.
“Always honored to meet a holder of the Crimean Cross,” she said, smiling.
“And over here,” continued Braxton in a jocular tone that was obviously designed to put me at ease—a ploy that failed spectacularly—“is Mr. Schitt-Hawse of the Goliath Corporation.”
Schitt-Hawse was a tall, thin man whose pinched features seemed to compete for position in the center of his face. His head tilted to the left in a manner that reminded me of an inquisitive budgerigar, and his dark hair was fastidiously combed back from his forehead. He put out his hand.
“Would it upset you if I didn’t shake it?” I asked him.
“Well, yes,” he replied, trying to be affable.
“Good.”
The Goliath Corporation’s pernicious hold over the nation was not universally appreciated, and I had a far greater reason to dislike them—the last Goliath employee I had dealt with was an odious character by the name of Jack Schitt. We had tricked him into a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” a place in which I hoped he could do no harm.
“Schitt-Hawse, eh?” I said. “Any relation to Jack?”
“He was—is—my half brother,” said Schitt-Hawse slowly, “and believe me, Ms. Next, he wasn’t working for us when he planned to prolong the Crimean War in order to create demand for Goliath weaponry.”
“And you never knew he had sided with Hades either, I suppose?”
“Of course not!” replied Schitt-Hawse in an offended tone.
“If you had known, would you admit it?”
Schitt-Hawse scowled and said nothing. Braxton coughed politely and continued:
“And this is Mr. Chesterman of the Brontë Federation.”
Chesterman blinked at me uncertainly. The changes I had wrought upon Jane Eyre had split the federation. I hoped he was one of the ones who preferred the happier ending.
“Back there is Captain Marat of the ChronoGuard,” continued Braxton. Marat, at this moment in his time, was a schoolboy of about twelve. He looked at me with interest. The ChronoGuard were the SpecOps division that took care of Anomalous Time Ripplation—my father had been one or was one or would be one, depending on how you looked at it.
“Have we met before?” I asked him.
“Not yet,” he replied cheerfully, returning to his copy of The Beano.
“Well!” said Braxton, clapping his hands together. “I think that’s everyone. Next, I want you to pretend we’re just not here.”
“Observers, yes?”
“Absolutely. I—”
Braxton was interrupted by a slight disturbance offstage.
“The bastards!” yelled a high voice. “If the network dares to replace my Monday slot with reruns of Bonzo the Wonder Hound I’ll sue them for every penny they have!”
A tall man of perhaps fifty-five had walked into the studio accompanied by a small group of assistants. He had handsome chiseled features and a luxuriant swirl of white hair that looked as though it had been carved from polystyrene. He wore an immaculately tailored suit and his fingers were heavily weighed down with gold jewelry. He stopped short when he saw us.
“Ah!” said Adrian Lush disdainfully. “SpecOps!”
His entourage flustered around