The Well of Lost Plots

'Finch-Hatton and Blixen. Yes, I know. I've been there.'

'Denys was in love with Baron Blixen?'

'Karen Blixen.'

'Oh.'

He sat down and I placed a coffee in front of him.

'So, tell me about your husband.'

'Hah!' I said, smiling. 'You don't want me to bore you about Landen.'

'It's not boring. You listen to me when I hark on about Mary.'

I stirred my coffee absently, running through my memories of Landen to make sure they were all there. Gran mumbled something about lobsters in her sleep.

'It must have been a hard decision to come and hide out here,' said Arnold quietly. 'I don't imagine Thursdays generally do that sort of thing.'

'You're right,' I replied, 'they don't. But sometimes falling back and regrouping is not the same as running away.'

'Tactical withdrawal?'

'Right. What would you do to get together with Mary again?'

'Anything.'

'And I with Landen. I will get him back � just not quite yet. But the strange thing is,' I added slightly wistfully, 'when he comes back he won't even know he's been gone � it's not as though he's waiting for me to reactualise him.'

We chatted for about an hour. He told me about the Well and I talked about the Outland. He was just trying to get me to repeat 'irrelevant benevolent elephant' when Gran woke up with a yell, shouting: 'The French! The French!' and had to be calmed down with a glass of warm whisky before I put her to bed.

'I'd better be going,' said Arnold. 'Mind if I drop round again?'

'Not at all,' I replied, 'that would be nice.'

I went to bed after that and was still awake when Ibb and Obb returned from the concert. They were giggling and made a very noisy cup of tea before retiring. I lay back and tried to sleep, hoping that I would dream of being back at our house, the one that Landen and I shared when we were married. Failing that, on holiday somewhere. Failing that when we first met, and if that wasn't available, an argument � and lastly, anything with Landen in it at all. Aornis, however, had other ideas.

15 Landen Parke-somebody

'Before Aornis Hades, the existence of mnemonomorphs was suspected only by SO-5 who, through deceit, idleness or forgetfulness, never told anyone else. The files on mnemonomorphs are kept in eight different locations and updated automatically between each location every week. An ability to control entropy does not necessarily go with the skill to alter memories; indeed, Aornis has been the only entity (thus far that we know about) who can do such a thing. As Miss Next demonstrated between 1986 and 1987, mnemonomorphs are not without their Achilles heel. There is one question we would all like to know about Aornis, however, since no physical evidence of her remains: was she real, or just a bad memory?'

BLAKE LAMME (EX-SO-5) � Remember Them? A Study of Mnemonomorphs

'Dear, sweet Thursday!' muttered a patronising voice that was chillingly familiar. I opened my eyes. I was on the roof of Thornfield Hall, Rochester's house in Jane Eyre. It was the time and place of the final showdown with Acheron Hades. The old house was on fire and I could feel the roof growing hot beneath my feet. I coughed in the smoke and felt my eyes begin to smart. Next to me was Edward Rochester, cradling a badly wounded hand. Acheron had already thrown Rochester's poor wife Bertha over the parapet and he was now preparing to finish us both off.

'Sweet madness, eh?' He laughed. 'Jane is with her cousins; the narrative is with her, and I have the manual!'

He waved it at me, deposited it in his pocket and picked up his gun.

'Who's first?'

I ignored Hades and looked around. The patronising 'Dear, sweet Thursday!' voice had not been his � it had belonged to Aornis. She was wearing the same designer clothes as she had when I last saw her � she was only a memory, after all.

'Hey!' said Acheron. I'm talking to you!'

I turned and dutifully fired and Hades caught the approaching bullet � as he had when this happened for real. He opened his fist; the slug was flattened into a small lead disc. He smiled and a shower of sparks flew up behind him.

But I wasn't so interested in Acheron this time around.

'Aornis!' I shouted. 'Show yourself, coward!'

'No coward I!' said Aornis, stepping from behind a large chimney piece.

'What are you doing to me?' I asked angrily, pointing my gun at her. She didn't seem to be in the least put out � in fact, she seemed more concerned with preventing the dirt from the roof soiling her suede shoes.

'Welcome.' She laughed. 'To the museum of your mind!'

The roof at Thornfield vanished and was replaced by the interior of the abandoned church where Spike and I were about to do battle with the Supreme Evil Being that was stuck in his head. It had happened for real a few weeks ago; the memories were still fresh � it was all chillingly lifelike.

'I am the curator in this museum,' said Aornis as we moved again to the dining room at home when I was eight, a small girl with pigtails and as precocious as they come. My father � before his eradication, of course � was carving the roast and telling me that if I kept on being a nuisance I would be made to go to my room.

'Familiar to you?' asked Aornis. 'I can call on any of the exhibits I want. Do you remember this?'

And we were back on the banks of the Thames, during my father's abortive attempt to rescue the two-year-old Landen. I felt the fear, the hopelessness squeezing my chest so tight I could barely breathe. I sobbed.

'I can run it again if you want to. I can run it for you every night for ever. Or I can delete it completely. How about this one?'

Night came on and we were in the area of Swindon where young couples go with their cars to get a bit of privacy. I had come here with Darren, a highly unlikely infatuation. He loomed close to me in an amorous embrace in the back of his Morris 8. I was seventeen and impulsive � Darren was eighteen and repulsive. I could smell his beery breath and a post-adolescent odour that was so strong you could have grabbed the air and wrung the stench from it with your bare hands. I could see Aornis outside the car, grinning at me, and through the laboured panting of Darren, I screamed.

'But this isn't the worst place we could go.' Aornis grinned through the window. 'We can go back to the Crimea and unlock memories that have been too terrifying even for you. The suppressed memories, the ones you block out to let you carry on during the day.'

'No,' I said. 'Aornis, not the charge�!'

But there we were, in the last place I wanted to be, driving my APC into the massed field artillery of the Russian army that August afternoon in 1973. Of the eighty-four APCs and light tanks that advanced into the Russian guns, only two vehicles returned. Out of the five hundred and thirty-four soldiers involved, fifty-one survived.

It was the moment before the barrage began. My CO, Major Phelps, was riding on the outside as he liked to do, foolhardy idiot that he was, and to my left and right I could see the other armoured vehicles throwing up large swathes of summer dust from the parched land. We could be seen for miles. The first salvo was so unexpected that I thought the munitions in a light tank had simply ignited by accident; the whine of a near-miss made me realise that it hadn't. I changed direction instantly and started to zigzag. I looked to Phelps for orders but he was slumped in the hatch; he had lost the lower part of his arm and was unconscious. The barrage was so intense that it became a single rumbling growl, the pressure waves thumping the APC so hard that it was all I could do to keep my hands on the controls.

I read the official report two years later; there had been forty-two guns trained on us from a thousand yards and they had expended three hundred and eighty-seven rounds of high-explosive shells � about four to each vehicle. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel.