The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [427]
Of them all, Heep was the most amateur. His skills at unobserved observation were woefully inadequate.
“Well!” he said when I caught him staring at me. “You and me both waiting for awards!” He rubbed his hands and tapped his long fingers together. “I ask you, me all humble and you an Outlander. Thanks to you and the mispeling incident I’m up for Most Creepy Character in a Dickens Novel. What would you be up for?”
“I’m giving one, not accepting one, Uriah—and why are you following me?”
“Apologies, ma’am,” he said, squirming slightly and clasping his hands together to try to stop them from moving, “Mr. Tweed asked me to keep a particular close eye on you in case of an attack, ma’am.”
“Oh, yes?” I replied, unimpressed by the lame cover story. “From whom?”
“Those who would wish you harm, of course. ProCaths, bowdlerizers—even the townspeople from Shadow. It was them what tried to kill you at Solomon’s, I’ll be bound.”
Sadly, it was true. There had been two attempts on my life since Deane’s arrest. The first had been a tiger released in Kenneth’s office. I thought at first it was Big Martin catching up with me—but it wasn’t. Bradshaw had dealt with the creature; he sent it on a one-way trip to Zenobians. The second had been a contract killing. Fortunately for me, Heep’s handwriting was pretty poor and Thursby from The Maltese Falcon was shot instead. It was only because I was an Outlander that I was still alive—if I’d been a Generic, Text Grand Central could have erased me at source long ago.
“Mr. Tweed said that Outlanders have to stick together,” carried on Heep, “and look after each other. Outlanders have a duty—”
“This is all really very sweet of him,” I interrupted, “but I can look after myself. Good luck with your award; I’m sure you’ll win.”
“Thank you!” he said, fidgeting for a moment before moving off a little way and continuing to stare at me in an unsubtle manner.
I was summoned towards the stage where I could see the master of ceremonies winding up the previous award. He reminded me of Adrian Lush—all smiles, insincerity and bouffant hair.
“So,” he carried on, “ ‘teleportation’ a clear winner for the Most Implausible Premise in an SF Novel, which was hard luck on ‘And they lived happily after,’ which won last year. If I could thank all the nominees and especially Ginger Hebblethwaite for presenting it.”
There was applause; a freckled youth in a flying jacket waved to the crowd and winked at me as he trotted offstage.
The emcee took a deep breath and consulted his list. Unlike awards at home, there was no TV coverage as no one in the BookWorld had a TV. You didn’t need one. The Generics who had remained in the books as a skeleton staff to keep the stories in order were kept up-to-date with a live footnoterphone link from the Starlight Room. With all the usual characters away at the awards, fiction wasn’t quite so good, but no one generally noticed. This was often the reason people in the Outland argued over the quality of a recommended book. They had read it during the Bookies.
“The next award, ladies, gentleman and, er, things, is to be given by the newest Jurisfiction agent to join the ranks of the BookWorld’s own policing agency. Fresh from a glittering career in the Outland and engineer of the improved ending to Jane Eyre, may I present—Thursday Next!”
There was applause and I walked on, smiling dutifully. I shook the hand of the emcee and looked out into the auditorium.
It was vast. Really vast. The Starlight Room was the largest single-function room ever described in any book. A lit candelabra graced each of the hundred thousand tables, and as I looked into the room, all I could see was a never-ending field of white lights, flickering in the distance like stars. Seven million characters were here tonight, but by using