The Well of Lost Plots

'What's going on?' I asked. '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 very 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 catch. 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 Passer-by.

'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!' snapped Mrs Passer-by, 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 nervously. 'It's not our fault. We are 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,' he remarked. '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 form 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 Passer-by, '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 Passer-by, '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 fix last?' I asked him. 'A day? How sad can you be for someone you barely know?'

They all looked at one another. I was right. The fix they were getting by killing and burying me would last until teatime if they were lucky.

'You have a better idea?'

'I can give you more emotion than you know how to handle,' I told them. 'Feelings so strong you won't know what to do with yourselves.'

'She's lying!' cried Mrs Passer-by dispassionately. 'Kill her now � I can't wait any longer! I need the sadness! Give it to me!'

'I'm Jurisfiction,' I told them. 'I can bring more jeopardy and strife into this book than a thousand Blytons could give you in a lifetime!'

'You could?' echoed the townspeople excitedly, lapping up the expectation I was generating.

'Yes � and here's how I can prove it. Mrs Passer-by?'

'Yes?'

'Mr Townsperson told me earlier he thought you had a fat arse.'

'He said what?' she replied angrily, her face suffused with joy as she fed off the hurt feelings I had generated.

'I most certainly said no such thing!' blustered Mr Townsperson, obviously feeling a big hit himself from the indignation.

'Us too!' yelled the townsfolk excitedly, eager to see what else I had in my bag of goodies.

'Nothing before you untie me!'

They did so with great haste; sorrow and happiness had kept them going for a long time but they had grown bored � I was here in the guise of dealer, offering new and different experiences.

I asked for my gun and was handed it, the townspeople watching me expectantly like a dodo waiting for marshmallows.

'For a start,' I said, rubbing my wrists and throwing the wedding ring aside, 'I can't remember who got me pregnant!'

There was a sudden silence.

'Shocking!' said the vicar. 'Outrageous, morally repugnant � mmmm!'

'But better than that,' I added, 'if you had killed me you would also have killed my unborn son � guilt like that could have lasted for months!'

'Yes!' yelled Mr Rustic. 'Kill her now!'

I pointed the gun at them and they stopped in their tracks

'You'll always regret not having killed me,' I murmured.

The townsfolk went quiet and mused upon this, the feeling of loss coursing through their veins.

'It feels wonderful!' said one of the farmworkers, taking a seat on the grass to focus his mind more carefully on the strange emotional pot-pourri offered by a missed opportunity of double murder. But I wasn't done yet.

'I'm going to report you to the Council of Genres,' I told them, 'and tell them how you tried to kill me � you could be shut down and reduced to text!'

I had them now. They all had their eyes closed and were rocking backwards and forwards, moaning quietly.

'Or perhaps,' I added, beginning to back away, 'I won't.'

I pulled off the wedding dress at the lichgate and looked back, townspeople were laid out on the ground, eyes closed, surfing their inner feelings on a cocktail of mixed emotions. They wouldn't be down for days.

I picked up myjacket and TravelBook on the way to the vet's, where the blind Shadow was waiting for me. I had completed the mission, even if I had come a hair's breadth from a sticky end. I could do better, and would, given time. I heard a low, growly voice close at hand.

'What happens to me? Am I reduced to text?'

It was Shadow.

'Officially, yes.'

'I see,' replied the dog, 'and unofficially?'

I thought for a moment.

'Do you like rabbits?'

'Rather.'

I pulled out my TravelBook.

'Good. Give me your paw. We're off to Rabbit Grand Central.'

20 Ibb and Obb named and Heights again

'BookStackers: To rid a book of the mispeling vyrus, many thousands of dictionaries are moved into the offending novel and stacked either side of the outbreak as a mispeling barrage. The wall of dictionaries is then moved in, paragraph by paragraph, until the vyrus is forced into a single sentence, then a word, then smothered completely. The job is done by BookStackers, usually D-Grade Generics, although for many years the Anti-mispeling Fast Response Group (AFRD) has been manned by over six-thousand WOLP�surplus Mrs Danvers. (See Danvers, Mrs � overproduction of.)'

UA OF W CAT � The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)

It was three days later. I had just had my early morning vomit and was lying back in bed, staring at Gran's note and trying to make sense of it. One word. Remember. What was I meant to remember? She hadn't yet returned from the Medici court and, although the note may have been the product of a Granny Next 'fuzzy moment', I still felt uneasy. There was something else. Beside my bed was a sketch of an attractive man in his late thirties. I didn't know who he was � which was odd, because I had sketched it.