The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [148]
I drove through the morning traffic in Swindon and parked the Speedster at the rear of the SpecOps HQ. The building was of a brusque no-nonsense Germanic design; hastily erected during the occupation, the facade still bore battle scars from Swindon’s liberation in 1949. It housed most of the SpecOps divisions but not all. Our Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operation also encompassed Reading and Salisbury, and in return Salisbury’s Art Theft division looked after our area as well. It all seemed to work quite well.
“Hullo!” I said to a young man who was taking a cardboard box out of the boot of his car. “New SpecOps?”
“Er, yes,” he replied, putting down his box for a moment to offer me his hand.
“John Smith—Weeds & Seeds.”
“Unusual name,” I said, shaking his hand, “I’m Thursday Next.”
“Oh!” he said, looking at me with interest. Sadly my anonymity had, it seemed, departed for good.
“Yes,” I replied, picking up several large box files for him, “that Thursday Next. Weeds & Seeds?”
“Domestic Horticulture Enforcement Agency,” explained John as we walked towards the SpecOps building. “SO-32. I’m starting an office here. There’s been a rise in the number of hackers just recently. The Pampas Grass Vigilante Squad are becoming more brazen in their activities; pampas grass might well be an eyesore, but there’s nothing illegal in it.”
We showed our ID cards to the desk sergeant and walked up the stairs to the second floor.
“I heard something about that,” I murmured. “Any links to the Anti-Leylandii Association?”
“Nothing positive,” replied Smith, “but I’m following all leads.”
“How many in your squad?”
“Including me, one,” grinned Smith. “Thought you were the most underfunded department in SpecOps? Think again. I’ve got six months to sort out the hackers, get the Japanese knotweed under control and find an acceptable plural form of narcissus.”
We reached the upstairs corridor and a small office that had once been home to SO-31, the Good Taste Education Authority. The division had been disbanded a month ago when the proposed legislation against stone cladding, pictures of crying clowns, and floral-patterned carpets failed in the upper house. I placed the box files on the table, told him narcissi was my favorite, wished him well and left him to unpack.
I was just walking past the office of SO-14 when I heard a shrill voice.
“Thursday! Thursday, yoo-hoo! Over here!”
I sighed. It was Cordelia Flakk. She quickly caught up with me and gave me an affectionate hug.
“The Lush show was a disaster!” I told her. “You said it was no-holds-barred! I ended up talking about dodos, my car and anything but Jane Eyre!”
“You were terrific!” she enthused. “I’ve got you lined up for another set of interviews the day after tomorrow.”
“No more, Cordelia.”
She looked crestfallen.
“I don’t understand.”
“What part of no more don’t you understand?”
“Don’t be like that, Thursday,” she replied, smiling broadly. “You’re good PR, and believe me, in an institution that routinely leaves the public perforated, confused, old before their time or, if they’re lucky, dead, we need every bit of good PR we can muster.”
“Do we do that much damage to the public?” I asked.
Flakk smiled modestly.
“Perhaps my PR is not so bad after all,” she conceded, then added quickly: “But every Joe that gets trounced in a crossfire is one too many.”
“That’s as may be,” I retorted, “but the fact remains you told me the Lush show would be the last.”
“Ah! But I also told you the Lush show would be no-holds-barred, didn’t I?” observed Cordelia brightly, displaying staggering reverse logic.
“However you want to spin it, Cordelia, the answer is still no.”
As I watched with a certain detached amusement, Flakk went through a bizarre routine that included hopping up and down for a bit, pulling pleading expressions, wringing her hands, puffing out her cheeks and staring at