The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [345]
“Hear, hear,” said a voice from the shadows. The group fell silent and turned in the direction of the newcomer, who stepped into the light accompanied by two minders and someone who looked like his agent. The newcomer was dark, swarthy and extremely handsome. Up until meeting him I had never comprehended why the characters in Wuthering Heights behaved in the sometimes irrational ways that they did; but after witnessing the glowering good looks, the piercing dark eyes, I understood. Heathcliff had an almost electrifying charisma; he could have charmed a cobra into a knot.
“Heathcliff!” cried Catherine, leaping into his arms and hugging him tightly. “Oh, Heathcliff my darling, how much I’ve missed you!”
“Bah!” cried Edgar, swishing his cane through the air in anger. “Put down my wife immediately or I’ll swear to God I shall—”
“Shall what?” inquired Heathcliff. “You gutless popinjay! My dog has more valor in its pizzle than you possess in your entire body! And, Linton, you weakling, what did you say about me being ‘wicked and rotten’?”
“Nothing,” said Linton quietly.
“Mr. Heathcliff,” said Miss Havisham sternly, “it doesn’t pay to be late for these sessions, nor to aggravate your cocharacters.”
“The devil take your sessions, Miss Havisham,” he said angrily. “Who is the star of this novel? Who do the readers expect to see when they pick up this book? Who has won the Most Troubled Romantic Lead at the BookWorld Awards seventy-seven times in a row? Me. All me. Without me, Heights is a tediously overlong, provincial potboiler of insignificant interest. I am the star of this book and I’ll do as I please, my lady, and you can take that to the Bellman, the Council, or all the way to the Great Panjandrum for all I care!”
He pulled a signed glossy photo of himself from his breast pocket and passed it to me with a wink. The odd thing was, I actually recognized him. He had been acting with great success in Hollywood under the name Buck Stallion, which probably explained where he got his money from; he could have bought Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights three times over on his salary.
“The Council of Genres has decreed that you will attend the sessions, Heathcliff,” said Havisham coldly. “If this book is to survive, we have to control the emotions within it; as it is, the novel is three times more barbaric than when first penned—left to its own devices it won’t be long before murder and mayhem start to take over completely—remember what happened to that once gentle comedy of manners Titus Andronicus? It’s now the daftest, most cannibalistic blood fest in the whole of Shakespeare. Heights will go the same way unless you can all somehow contain your anger and resentment!”
“I don’t want to be made into a pie!” moaned Linton.
“Brave speech,” replied Heathcliff sardonically, “very brave.” He leaned closer to Miss Havisham, who stood her ground defiantly. “Let me ‘share’ something with your little group. Wuthering Heights and all who live within her may go to the devil for all I care. It has served its purpose as I honed the delicate art of treachery and revenge—but I’m now bigger than this book and bigger than all of you. There are better novels waiting for me out there, that know how to properly service a character of my depth!”
The assembled characters gasped as this new intelligence sank in. Without Heathcliff there would be no book—and in consequence, none of them, either.
“You wouldn’t make it into Spot’s Birthday without the Council’s permission,” growled Havisham. “Try and leave Heights and we’ll make make you wish you’d never been written!”
Heathcliff laughed. “Nonsense! The Council has urgent need of characters such as I; leaving me stuck in the classics where I am only ever read by bored English students is a waste of one of the finest romantic leads ever written. Mark my words, the Council will do whatever it takes to attract a greater readership—a transfer will not be opposed by them or anyone else, I can assure