The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [482]
“Exactly so!”
“How do I apply?”
“We’ve opened an Apologarium in Goliathopolis; you can take the free shuttle from Tarbuck Graviport. They’ll tell you what to do.”
“Harmonious peace, eh?”
“Peace is what Goliath does best, Miss Next. Just fill out a form and see one of our trained apologists. I’m sure they can get your husband back in a jiffy!”
I took the mocha with extra cream and the latte and sat by the window, staring at the SpecOps Building in silence. Hamlet sensed my disquiet and busied himself on a list of things he wanted to tell Ophelia but didn’t think he would be able to, then another list of things he should tell her but won’t. Then a list of all the different lists he had written about Ophelia and, finally, a letter of appreciation to Sir John Gielgud.
“I’m going to sort out a few things,” I said after a while. “Don’t move from here, and don’t tell anyone who you really are. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Hamlet, Prince of . . . just kidding. I’m your cousin Eddie.”
“Good. And you have cream on your nose.”
6.
Spec Ops
The Special Operations Network was the agency that looked after areas too specialized to be undertaken by the regular police. There were over thirty SpecOps divisions. SO-1 policed us all, SO-12 was the ChronoGuard, and SO-13 dealt with reengineered species. SO-17 was the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operations and SO-32 the Horticultural Enforcement Agency. I had been SO-27, the Literary Detectives. Ten years authenticating Milton and tracking down forged Shakespeareana. After my work actually within fiction, it all seemed a bit tame. At Jurisfiction I could catch a horse as it bolted—in the Literary Detectives, it was like wandering around a very large field armed with only a halter and a photograph of a carrot.
Thursday Next, Private Journals
I pushed open the door to the station and walked in. The building was shared with Swindon’s regular force and seemed slightly shabbier than I remembered.The walls were the same dismal shade of green, and I could smell the faint aroma of boiled cabbage from the canteen on the second floor. In truth, my stay here in late ’85 had not actually been that long—most of my SpecOps career had been undertaken in London.
I walked over to the main desk, expecting to see Sergeant Ross. He had been replaced by someone who seemed too young to be a police officer, much less a desk sergeant.
“I’m here to get my old job back,” I announced.
“Which was?”
“Literary Detective.”
He chuckled. Unkindly, I thought.
“You’ll need to see the commander,” he replied without taking his gaze from the book he was scribbling in. “Name?”
“Thursday Next.”
A hush descended slowly on the room, beginning with those closest to me and moving outwards with my whispered name like ripples in a pool. Within a few moments I was being stared at in silence by at least two dozen assorted police and SpecOps officers, a couple of Gaskell impersonators and an ersatz Coleridge. I gave an embarrassed smile and looked from blank face to blank face, trying to figure out whether to run, or to fight, or what. My heart beat faster as a young officer quite close to me reached into his breast pocket and pulled out—a notebook.
“Please,” he said. “I wonder if I might have your autograph?”
“Well, no—of course not.”
I breathed a sign of relief, and pretty soon I was having my back slapped and being congratulated on the whole Jane Eyre adventure. I’d forgotten the celebrity thing but also noticed that there were officers in the room who were interested in me for another reason—SO-1, probably.
“I need to see Bowden Cable,” I said to the desk sergeant, realizing that if anyone could help, it was my old partner. He smiled, picked up a phone, announced me and wrote out a visitor’s pass, then told me to go to Interview Suite 16 on the third floor. I thanked my newfound acquaintances, made my way to the elevators and ascended to the third floor. When the lift doors rattled open I walked with a hurried step towards Room 16. Halfway there