The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [278]
“I suppose,” said Lord Volescamper, interrupting the silence in a glum voice, “that this means I won’t be in Kaine’s government after all?”
“Politics is overrated,” I told him.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he agreed, getting up. “Well, goodnight, Miss Next. I didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, is that right?”
“Nothing at all.”
Volescamper sighed and looked at the shattered remains of the interior of his house. He picked his way to the twisted steel door and turned to face me.
“Always was a heavy sleeper. Look here, pop round for tea and scones one day, why don’t you?”
“Thank you, sir. I shall. Goodnight.”
Volescamper gave me a desultory wave and was soon out of sight. I smiled to myself at the revelation of Kaine’s fictional identity; I reckoned that not being a real person had to present a pretty good obstacle to being prime minister, but I couldn’t help wondering just how much power he did wield within the world of fiction—and whether I had heard the last of him. After all, the Whig party was still in existence, with or without their leader. Still, Tweed was a professional, and I had other things to deal with.
I looked down the corridor, past the twisted doors. The front of Vole Towers, was virtually destroyed; the ceiling had collapsed and rubble lay strewn around where the Glatisant had fought the very finest of SO-14. I picked my way through the twisted door and down the corridor, where deep gouges had been scraped in the floor and walls by the leaden hide of the beast. The remaining SpecOps-14 operatives had all pulled back to regroup, and I slipped out in the confusion. Nine good men fell to the Questing Beast that night. The officers would all be awarded the SpecOps Star for Conspicuous Bravery in the Face of Other.
As I walked along the gravel drive away from what remained of Vole Towers, I could see a white charger galloping towards me, the warrior on its back holding a sharpened lance while behind him a dog barked excitedly. I waved King Pellinore to a halt.
“Ah!” he said, raising his visor and peering down at me. “The Next girl! Seen the Questin’ Beast, what what?”
“I’m afraid you’ve missed it,” I explained. “Sorry.”
“Dem shame,” announced Pellinore sadly, parking the lance in his stirrup. “Dem shame indeed, eh? I’ll find it, you know. It is the lot of the Pellinores, to go a-mollocking for the beastly beast. Come, sir—away!”
He spurred his steed and galloped off across the parkland of Vole Towers, the horse’s hooves throwing great divots of grass high in the air, the large white dog running behind them, barking furiously.
I returned to my apartment after giving an anonymous tip-off to The Mole, suggesting that they confirm the ongoing existence of Cardenio. The fact that I still had the apartment verified once and for all that Landen hadn’t been returned. I had been a fool to think that Goliath would honor their part of the deal. I sat in the dark for a while, but even fools need rest, so I went to sleep under the bed as a precaution, which was just as well—at 3 a.m. Goliath turned up, had a good look around and then left. I stayed hidden as a further precaution and was glad of this also, because SpecOps turned up at 4 a.m. and did exactly the same. Confident now of no further interruptions, I crawled out from my hiding place and climbed into bed, sleeping heavily until ten the next morning.
31.
Dream Topping
Ever since calories and “sugar intake” were discovered, the realm of the pudding has suffered intensely. There was a day when one could honestly and innocently enjoy the sheer pleasure of a good sticky toffee pudding; when ice cream was nice cream and bakewell tart really was baked well. Tastes change, though, and the world of the sweet has often been sour, having to go through some dramatic overhaulage in order to keep pace. Whilst a straightforward sausage and a common kedgeree maintain their hold on a nation’s culinary choices, the pudding has to stay on its toes to tantalize our tastebuds. From low fat through to no fat, from