The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [192]
I lapsed into silence.
“And how would you have known that,” asked Gran triumphantly, “unless you had actually been there?”
I quickly skimmed the book, surprised and impressed by the tantalizing glimmer of another world beyond the attractive watercolors and simple prose. I concentrated hard but nothing similar happened. Perhaps I wanted it too much; I don’t know. After the tenth reading I was just looking at the words and ink and nothing else.
“It’s a start,” said Gran encouragingly. “Try another book when you get home, but don’t expect too much too soon—and I’d strongly recommend you go and look for Mrs. Nakajima. Where does she live?”
“She took retirement in Jane Eyre.”
“Before that?”
“Osaka.”
“Then perhaps you should seek her there—and for heaven’s sake, relax!”
I told her I would, kissed her on the forehead and quietly left the room.
12.
At Home with My Memories
ToadNewsNetwork was the top news station, Lydia Startright their top reporter. If there was a top event, you could bet your top dollar that Toad would make it their top story. When Tunbridge Wells was given to the Russians as war reparations there was no topper story—except, that is, the mammoth migrations, speculation on Bonzo the Wonder Hound’s next movie or whether Lola Vavoom shaved her armpits or not. My father said that it was a delightfully odd—and dangerously self-destructive—quirk of humans that we were far more interested in pointless trivia than in genuine news stories.
THURSDAY NEXT,
A Life in SpecOps
SINCE I WAS STILL on official leave pending the outcome of the SO-1 hearing, I went home and let myself into my apartment, kicked off my shoes and poured some pistachios into Pickwick’s dish. I made some coffee and called Bowden for a long chat, trying to find out what else had changed since Landen’s eradication. As it turned out, not much. Anton had still been blamed for the charge of the light armored brigade, I had still lived in London for ten years, still arrived back in Swindon at the same time, still been up at Uffington picnicking the day before. Dad had once said the past has an astonishing resilience to change; he wasn’t kidding. I thanked Bowden, hung up and painted for a while, trying to relax. When that failed I went up for a walk at Uffington, joining the sightseers who had gathered to watch the smashed Hispano-Suiza being loaded onto a trailer. The Leviathan Airship Company had begun an inquiry and volunteered one of their directors to accept charges of corporate manslaughter. The hapless executive had begun his seven-year term already, thus hoping to avoid an expensive and damaging lawsuit for his company.
I returned home to find a dangerous-looking man was standing on my doorstep. I’d never seen him before but he knew me well enough.
“Next!” he bellowed. “I want three months’ rent in advance or I’ll throw all your stuff in the skip!”
“In advance?” I replied as I unlocked my door, hoping to sneak inside and close it as soon as possible. “You can’t do that!”
“I can,” he said holding up a dog-eared lease agreement. “Pets are strictly against the terms of the lease. Clause 7 subsection B, under ‘Pets—special conditions.’ Now pay up.”
“There’s no pet in here,” I explained innocently.
“What’s that, then?”
Pickwick had made a quiet plock-plock noise and poked her head round the door to see what was going on. It was a badly timed move.
“Oh that. I’m looking after her for a friend.”
My landlord’s eyes suddenly lit up as he looked closer at Pickwick, who shrank back nervously. She was a rare Version 1.2 and my landlord seemed to know this.
He eyed Pickwick greedily. “Hand over the dodo,” he said, “and I’ll give you four months’ free rent.”
“She’s not for trade,” I said firmly. I could feel Pickwick quivering behind me.
“Ah,” said my landlord. “Then you have two days to pay all your bills or you’re out on your sweet little SpecOps arse. Capishe?”
“You say the nicest things.”
He glared at me, handed me a bill and disappeared off down