The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [412]
“This is Nathan Snudd,” said Jack, indicating a young man sitting in the backseat. “Nathan is a plotsmith who’s just graduated in the Well and has kindly agreed to help us. He has some ideas about the book that I wanted you to hear. Mr. Snudd, this is Thursday Next.”
“Hi,” I said, shaking his hand.
“The Outlander Thursday Next?”
“Yes.”
“Fascinating! Tell me, why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?”
“I don’t know. What are your ideas for the book?”
“Well,” said Nathan, affecting the manner of someone who knows a great deal, “I’ve being looking at what you have left and I’ve put together a rescue plan that uses the available budget, characters and remaining high points of the novel to best effect.”
“Is it still a murder inquiry?”
“Oh, yes; and the fight-rigging bit I think we can keep, too. I’ve bought a few cut-price plot devices from a bargain warehouse in the Well and sewn them in. For instance, I thought that instead of having one scene where Jack is suspended by DCI Briggs, you could have six.”
“Will that work?”
“Sure. Then there will be a bad-cop routine where an officer close to you is taking bribes and betrays you to the Mob. I’ve got this middle-aged, creepy housekeeper Generic we can adapt. In fact, I’ve got seventeen middle-aged, creepy housekeepers we can pepper about the book.”
“Mrs. Danvers, by any chance?” I asked.
“We’re working on a tight budget,” replied Snudd coldly, “let’s not forget that.”
“What else?”
“I thought there could be several gangster’s molls or a prostitute who wants to go straight and helps you out.”
“A ‘tart with a heart’?”
“In one. They’re ten a penny in the Well at the moment—we should be able to get five for a ha’penny.”
“Then what happens?”
“This is the good bit. Someone tries to kill you with a car bomb. I’ve bought this great little scene for you where you go to your car, are about to start it but find a small piece of wire on the floor mat. It’s a cinch and cheap, too. I can buy it wholesale from my cousin; he said he would throw in a missing consignment of Nazi bullion and a sad-loser-detective-drunk-at-a-bar-with-whiskey-and-a-cigarette scene. You are a sad, loner, loser maverick detective with a drink problem, yes?”
Jack looked at me and smiled. “No, not anymore. I live with my wife and have four amusing children.”
“Not on this budget.” Snudd laughed. “Humorous sidekicks—kids or otherwise—cost bundles.”
There was a tap on the window.
“Hello, Prometheus,” said Jack, “have you met Thursday Next? She’s from the Outland.”
Prometheus looked at me and put out a hand. He was an olive-skinned man of perhaps thirty, with tightly curled black hair close to his head. He had deep black eyes and a strong Grecian nose that was so straight you could have laid a set square on it.
“Outland, eh? What did you think of Byron’s retelling of my story?”
“I thought it excellent.”
“Me, too. When are we going to get the Elgin marbles back?”
“No idea.”
Prometheus, more generally known as the fire-giver, was a Titan who had stolen fire from the gods and given it to mankind, a good move or a terrible one, depending on which papers you read. As punishment, Zeus had him chained to a rock in the Caucasus, where his liver was picked out every night by eagles, only to regrow during the day. He looked quite healthy, in spite of it. What he was doing in Caversham Heights, I had no idea.
“I heard you had a spot of bother,” he said to Jack, “something about the plot falling to pieces?”
“My attempts to keep it secret don’t appear to be working,” muttered Jack. “I don’t want a panic. Most Generics have a heart of gold, but if there is the sniff of a problem with the narrative, they’ll abandon Heights like rats from a ship—and an influx of Generics seeking employment to the Well could set the Book Inspectorate off like a rocket.”
“Ah,” replied the Titan, “tricky indeed. I