The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [375]
“. . . I now pronounce you man and wife! You may kiss the bride.”
Mr. Townsperson loomed closer. I tried to back away but was held tightly. Mr. Townsperson kissed me tenderly on the sticking plaster that covered my mouth. As he did so, an excited murmur went up from the congregation.
There was applause and I was dragged towards the main door, covered in confetti and made to pose for a wedding photograph. For the picture the sticking plaster was removed so I had time to make my protestations.
“No coerced wedding was ever recognized by law!” I bellowed. “Let me go right now and I may not report you!”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Townsperson,” said Mrs. Passerby, addressing me, “in ten minutes it really won’t matter. You see, we rarely get the opportunity to perform nuptials as no one in here ever gets married—the Well never went so far as to offer us that sort of luxury.”
“What about the others you mentioned?” I asked, a sense of doom rising within me. “Where are the other brides who were forced into marriage?”
Everyone looked solemn, clasped their hands together and stared at the ground.
“What’s going on? What will happen in ten minutes?”
I turned as the four men let go of me and saw the vicar again. But he wasn’t cheery this time. He was solemn, and well he might be. Before him was a freshly dug grave. Mine.
“Oh my God!” I muttered.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered . . . ,” began the vicar as the same townsfolk began to sniffle into their hankies again. But this time the tears weren’t of happiness—they were of sorrow.
I cursed myself for being so careless. Mr. Townsperson had my automatic and released the safety. I looked around desperately. Even if I had been able to get a message to Havisham, I doubted whether she could have made it in time.
“Mr. Townsperson,” I said in a quiet voice, staring into his eyes, “my own husband! You would kill your bride?”
He trembled slightly and glanced at Mrs. Passerby. “I’m . . . I’m afraid so, my dear,” he faltered.
“Why?” I asked, stalling for time.
“We need the . . . need the—”
“For Panjandrum’s sake get on with it or I shall!” snapped Mrs. Passerby, who seemed to be the chief instigator of all this. “I need my emotional fix!”
“Wait!” I said. “You’re after emotion?”
“They call us sentiment junkies,” said Mr. Townsperson sadly. “It’s not our fault. We are all Generics rated between C-7 and D-3; we don’t have many emotions of our own but are smart enough to know what we’re missing.”
“If you don’t kill her, I shall!” mumbled Mr. Rustic, tapping my “husband” on the elbow.
He pulled away. “She has a right to know. She is my wife, after all.” He looked nervously left and right.
“Go on.”
“We started with humorous one-liners that offered a small kick. That kept us going for a few months, but soon we wanted more: laughter, joy, happiness in any way we could get it. Thrice-monthly garden fetes, weekly harvest festivals and tombola four times a day were not enough; we wanted . . . the hard stuff.”
“Grief,” murmured Mrs. Passerby, “grief, sadness, sorrow, loss—we wanted it but we wanted it strong. Ever read On Her Majesty’s Secret Service?”
I nodded.
“We wanted that. Our hearts raised by the happiness of a wedding and then dashed by the sudden death of the bride!”
I stared at the slightly crazed Generics. Unable to generate emotions synthetically from within the confines of their happy rural idyll, they had embarked upon a systematic rampage of enforced weddings and funerals to give them the high they desired. I looked at the graves in the churchyard and wondered how many others had suffered this fate.
“We will all be devastated by your death, of course,” whispered Mrs. Passerby, “but we will get over it—the slower the better!”
“Wait!” I said. “I have an idea!”
“We don’t want ideas, my love,” said Mr. Townsperson, pointing the gun at me again, “we want emotion.”
“How long will this