The Well of Lost Plots

There was thunderous applause and I smiled dutifully as the MC bent closer to the microphone.

'Wonderful!' he said enthusiastically as the applause subsided. 'Let's hear the winning paragraph, shall we?'

He placed the short section of writing into the ImaginoTransference device that had been installed on the stage. But this wasn't a recording ITRD like the ones they used to create books in the Well it was a transmitter. The words of Waugh's story were read by the machine and projected directly into the audience's imagination.

'I have been here before,' I said; I had been there before; first with Sebastian more than twenty years ago on a cloudless day in June, when the ditches were creamy with meadowsweet and the air heavy with the scents of summer; it was a day of peculiar splendour, and although I had been there so often, in so many moods, it was to that first visit that my heart returned on this, my latest …

There was more applause from the guests, and when finally it stopped the MC announced:

'Mr Waugh can't be with us tonight so I would like to ask Sebastian to accept the award on his behalf.'

There was a drum roll and a brief alarum of music as Sebastian walked from his table up the steps to the podium, and after kissing me on the cheek he shook the MC warmly by the hand.

'Goodness!' he said, taking a swig from the glass he had brought with him. 'It's a great honour to accept the award on behalf of Mr Waugh. I know he would want me to thank Charles, from whose mouth all the words spring, and also Lord Marchmain for his excellent death scene, my mother, of course, and Julia, Cords—'

'What about me?' said a small voice from the Brideshead table.

'I was getting to you, Aloysius.'

He cleared his throat and took another swig.

'Of course, I would also like to say that we in Brideshead could not have done it all on our own. I'd like to thank all the other characters in previous works who have done so much to lay the groundwork. I'd particularly like to mention Captain Grimes, Margot Metroland, and Lord Copper. In addition …'

He droned on like this for almost twenty minutes, thanking everyone he could think of before finally taking the 'Bookie' statuette and returning to his table. I was thanked by the MC and walked off the stage feeling really quite relieved, the voice of the MC echoing behind me:

'And for the next category, "Most Incomprehensible Plot in Any Genre", we are very pleased to welcome someone who has kindly taken a few hours' leave of his gruelling schedule of sadistic galactic domination. Ladies, gentlemen and things, His Supreme Holiness Emperor Zhark—!'

'You're on,' I whispered to the emperor, who was trying to calm his nerves with a quick cigarette in the wings.

'How do I look?' he asked. 'Enough to strike terror into the hearts of millions of merciless life forms?'

'Terrifying,' I told him. 'Have you got the envelope?'

He patted his thick black cloak until he found it and held it up, gave a wan smile, took a deep breath and strode purposefully on to the stage to screams of terror and boos.

I re-entered the Starlight Room as the 'Most Incomprehensible Plot' was awarded for the fifth year running to The Magus. I glanced at my watch. There was an hour to go until the last and most prestigious award was due to be announced — the 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)'. It was a hot contest and the odds had been fluctuating all day. Heathcliff was the clear favourite at 7-2. He had won it seventy-six times in a row and, ever conscious of someone trying to steal his thunder, he had been altering his words and actions subtly to keep the crown firmly on his head, something the opposition had also been attempting. Jude Fawley had been trying to spike his own plot to add drama and even Hamlet was not averse to a subtle amount of plot-shifting; he had hammed up his madness so much he had to be sent on a cruise to calm him down.

I passed a table populated entirely by rabbits.

'Waiter!' called one of them, thumping his rear paw to get attention. 'More dandelion leaves for table eight, if you please, sir!'

'Good evening, Miss Next.'

It was the Bradshaws; I was glad to see that they had not been swayed by convention — Mrs Bradshaw had decided to attend after all.

'Good evening, Commander, good evening, Mrs Bradshaw — nice dress you're wearing.'

'Do you think so?' asked Mrs Bradshaw slightly nervously. 'Trafford wanted me to wear something full length but I think this little Coco Chanel cocktail number is rather fetching, don't you?'

'Black suits your eyes,' I told her, and she smiled demurely.

'I've got the thing you wanted me to keep for you,' whispered Bradshaw under his breath. 'Appreciate a girl who knows how to delegate — say the word and it's yours!'

'I'm waiting for the announcement of UltraWord™,' I hissed. 'Tweed is on my back; don't let him get it no matter what!'

'Don't worry your little head about that,' he said, nodding towards Mrs Bradshaw. 'The memsahib's in the loop — she may look a delicate thing but by St George she's a fearful lass when riled.'

He gave me a wink and I moved on, heart pounding. I hoped the nervousness didn't show. Heep was on the stage but Legree had taken his place and was keeping a surreptitious eye on me from seven hundred tables away. The temporal field displacement technology worked in his favour — every table was next to every other one.

All of a sudden there was a strong smell of beer.

'Miss Next!'

'Sir John, good evening.'

Falstaff looked me up and down. I didn't wear a dress that often and I crossed my arms defensively.

'Resplendent, my dear, resplendent!' he exclaimed, pretending to be something of an expert.

'Thank you.'

Usually I avoided Falstaff, but if I was being watched it made sense to talk to as many people as possible; if Tweed and TGC thought I could throw a spanner in the works I would not help them by drawing attention to my genuine confederates.

'I know of a side room, Mistress Next, a small place of an acquainting manner — a niche d’amour. What say you and I retire to that place where you might learn how I came by the name "Falstaff".'

'Another time.'

'Really?' he asked, surprised by my — albeit accidental — acquiescence.

'No, not really, Sir John,' I said hurriedly.

'Phew!' he said, mopping his brow. 'It would not be half the sport if you were to lie with me — resistance, Mistress Next, is rich allurement indeed!'

'If resistance is all you seek,' I told him, smiling, 'then you will never have a keener woman to woo!'

'I'll drink to that!'

He laughed heartily — the word might have been coined for him.

'I have to leave you, Sir John. No more than a gallon of beer an hour, remember?'

I patted his large turn, which was as hard and unyielding as a beer barrel.

'On my word!' he replied, wiping the beer froth from his beard.

I reached the jurisfiction table. Beatrice and Benedict were arguing, as usual.

'Ah!' said Benedict as soon as I sat down. '’Tis beauty that dost oft make women proud, but God he knows Beatrice's share thereof is small!'

'How so?' replied Beatrice. 'That face of yours that hungry cannibals would not have touch'd!'

'Have either of you seen the Bellman?' I asked.

They said they hadn't and I left them to their arguing as Foyle sat down next to me. I had seen him at Norland Park from time to time. He was Jurisfiction, too.

'Hello,' he said, 'we haven't been introduced. Gully Foyle is my name, terra is my nation; deep space is my dwelling place and death's my destination — I police Science Fiction.'

I shook his hand.

'Thursday Next,' I replied. 'From Swindon. How are you liking the awards?'

'Pretty good,' he returned. 'I was disappointed that Hamlet won the "Shakespearean Character You'd Most Like to Slap" award — my money was on Othello.'