The Well of Lost Plots

'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.

There was an excited knock at the door. It was Ibb. It had been looking more feminine all week and had even gone so far as to put on haughty airs all day Wednesday. Obb, on the other hand, had been insisting he was right about everything, knew everything, and had sulked when I proved it wrong, and we all knew where that was leading.

'Hello, Ibb,' I said, placing the sketch aside, 'how are you?'

Ibb replied by unzipping and opening the top of its overalls.

'Look!' she said excitedly, showing me her breasts.

'Congratulations,' I said slowly, still feeling a bit groggy. 'You're a her.'

'I know!' said Ibb, hardly able to contain her excitement. 'Do you want to see the rest?'

'No thanks,' I replied, 'I believe you.'

'Can I borrow a bra?' she asked, moving her shoulders up and down. 'These things aren't terribly comfortable.'

'I don't think mine would fit you,' I said hurriedly. 'You're a lot bigger than I am.'

'Oh,' she answered, slightly crestfallen, then added: 'How about a hair tie and a brush? I can't do a thing with this hair. Up, down — perhaps I should have it cut, and I so wish it were curly!'

'Ibb, it's fine, really.'

'Lola,' she said, correcting me, 'I want you to call me Lola from now on.'

'Very well, Lola,' I replied, 'sit on the bed.'

So Lola sat while I brushed her hair and she nattered on about a weight-loss idea she had had which seemed to revolve around weighing yourself with one foot on the scales and one on the floor. Using this idea, she told me, she could lose as much weight as she wanted and not give up cakes. Then she started talking about this great new thing she had discovered which was so much fun she thought she'd be doing it quite a lot — and she reckoned she'd have no trouble getting men to assist.

'Just be careful,' I told her. 'Think before you do what you do with who you do it.' It was advice my mother had given me.

'Oh yes,' Lola assured me, 'I'll be very careful — I'll always ask them their name first.'

When I had finished she stared at herself in the mirror for a moment, gave me a big hug and skipped out of the door. I dressed slowly and walked down to the kitchen.

Obb was sitting at the table painting a Napoleonic cavalry officer the height of a pen top. He was gazing intently at the miniature horseman and glowering with concentration. He had developed into a dark-haired and handsome man of at least six foot three over the past few days, with a deep voice and measured speech; he also looked about fifty. I suspected it was now a he but hoped he wouldn't try and demonstrate it in the same way that Lola had.

'Morning, Obb,' I said. 'Breakfast?'

He dropped the horseman on the floor.

'Now look what you've made me do!' he growled, adding: 'Toast, please, and coffee — and it's Randolph, not Obb.'

'Congratulations,' I told him, but he only grunted in reply, found the cavalry officer and carried on with his painting.