Something rotten

2 No Place Like Home

'Swindon, Wessex, England, was the place I was born and where I lived until I left to join the literary detectives in London. I returned ten years later and married my former boyfriend, Landen Parke-Laine. He was subsequently murdered at the age of two by the Goliath Corporation, who had decided to blackmail me. It worked, I helped them � but I didn't get my husband back. Oddly, I kept his son, my son, Friday � it was one of those quirky time-travel paradoxical things that my father understands but I don't. Two years farther on Landen was still dead, and unless I did something about it soon, he might remain that way for ever.'

THURSDAY NEXT � Thursday Next, a Life in SpecOps

It was a bright and clear morning in mid-July two weeks later when I found myself on the corner of Broome Manor Lane in Swindon, on the opposite side of the road to my mother's house, with a toddler in a pushchair, two dodos, the Prince of Denmark, an apprehensive heart and hair cut way too short. The Council of Genres hadn't taken the news of my resignation very well. In fact, they refused to accept it at all and gave me instead unlimited leave, in the somewhat deluded hope that I might return if actualising my husband 'didn't work out'. They also suggested I might like to deal with escaped fictionaut Yorrick Kaine, someone with whom I had crossed swords twice in the past.

Hamlet had been a late addition to my plans. Increasingly concerned over reports that he was being misrepresented as something of a 'ditherer' in the Outland, he had requested leave to see for himself. This was unusual in that fictional characters are rarely troubled by public perception, but Hamlet would worry about having nothing to worry about if he had nothing to worry about, and since he was the indisputable star of the Shakespeare canon and had lost the 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead' crown to Heathcliff once again at this year's BookWorld awards, the Council of Genres thought they should do something to appease him. Besides, Jurisfiction had been trying to persuade him to police Elizabethan drama since Sir John Falstaff retired on grounds of 'good health', and a trip to the Outland, it was thought, might persuade him.

'�Tis very strange!' he murmured, staring at the sun, trees, houses and traffic in turn. 'It would take a rhapsody of wild and whirling words to do justice to all that I witness!'

'You're going to have to speak English out here.'

'All this,' explained Hamlet, waving his hands at the fairly innocuous Swindon street, 'would take millions of words to describe correctly!'

'You're right. It would. That's the magic of the book ImaginoTransference technology,' I told him. 'A few dozen words conjure up an entire picture. But in all honesty the reader does most of the work.'

'The reader? What's it got to do with them?'

'Well, each interpretation of an event, setting or character is unique to the person who reads it because they clothe the author's description with the memory of their own experiences. Every character they read is actually a complex amalgam of people that they've met, read or seen before � far more real than it can ever be just from the text on the page. Because every reader's experiences are different, each book is unique for each reader.'

'So,' replied the Dane, thinking hard, 'what you're saying is that the more complex and apparently contradictory the character, the greater the possible interpretations?'

'Yes. In fact, I'd argue that every time a book is read by the same person it is different again � because the reader's experiences are changed, or they are in a different frame of mind.'

'Well, that explains why no one can figure me out. After four hundred years nobody's quite decided what, exactly, my inner motivations are.' He paused for a moment and sighed mournfully. 'Including me. You'd have thought I was religious, wouldn't you, with all that not wanting to kill Uncle Claudius when at prayer and suchlike?'

'Of course.'

'I thought so too. So why do I use the atheistic line there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so? What's that all about?'

'You mean you don't know?'

'Listen, I'm as confused as anyone.'

I stared at Hamlet and he shrugged. I had been hoping to get some answers from him regarding the inconsistencies within his play, but now I wasn't so sure.

'Perhaps,' I said thoughtfully, 'that's why we like it. To each our own Hamlet.'

'Well,' snorted the Dane unhappily, 'it's a mystery to me. Do you think therapy would help?'

'I'm not sure. Listen, we're almost home. Remember: to anyone but family you're . . . who are you?'

'Cousin Eddie.'

'Good. Come on.'

Mum's house was a detached property of good proportions in the south of the town but of no great charm other than that which my long association had conferred upon it. I had spent the first eighteen years of my life growing up here, and everything about the old house was familiar. From the tree I had fallen out of, cracking a collar bone, to the garden path where I had learned to ride my bicycle. I hadn't really noticed it before but empathy for the familiar grows stronger with age. The old house felt warmer to me now than it ever had before.

I took a deep breath, picked up my suitcase and trundled the pushchair across the road. My pet dodo Pickwick followed with her unruly son Alan padding grumpily after her.

I rang Mum's doorbell and after about a minute a slightly overweight vicar with short brown hair and spectacles answered the door.

'Is that Doofus�?' he said when he saw me, suddenly breaking into a broad grin. 'By the GSD, it is Doofus!'

'Hi, Joffy. Long time no see.'

Joffy was my brother. He was a minister of the Global Standard Deity religion, and although we had had differences in the past, they were long forgotten. I was pleased to see him, and he me.

'Whoa!' he said. 'What's that?'

'That's Friday,' I explained. 'Your nephew.'

'Wow!' replied Joffy, undoing Friday's harness and lifting him out. 'Does his hair always stick up like that?'

'Probably leftovers from breakfast.'

Friday stared at Joffy for a moment, took his fingers out of his mouth, rubbed them on his face, put them in again and offered Joffy his polar bear, Poley.

'Kind of cute, isn't he?' said Joffy, jiggling Friday up and down and letting him tug at his nose. 'But a bit, well, sticky. Does he talk?'

'Not a lot. Thinks a great deal, though.'

'Like Mycroft. What happened to your head?'

'You mean my haircut?'

'So that's what it was!' murmured Joffy. 'I thought you'd had your ears lowered or something. Bit, er . . . bit extreme, isn't it?'

'I had to stand in for Joan of Arc. It's always tricky to find a replacement.'

'I can see why,' exclaimed Joffy, still staring incredulously at my pudding-bowl haircut. 'Why don't you just have the whole lot off and start again?'

'This is Hamlet,' I said, introducing him before he began to feel awkward, 'but he's here incognito so I'm telling everyone he's my cousin Eddie.'

'Joffy,' said Joffy, 'brother of Thursday.'

'Hamlet,' said Hamlet, 'Prince of Denmark.'

'Danish?' said Joffy with a start. 'I shouldn't spread that around if I were you.'

'Why?'

'Darling!' said my mother, appearing behind Joffy. 'You're back! Goodness! Your hair!'

'It's a Joan of Arc thing,' explained Joffy, 'very fashionable right now. Martyrs are big on the catwalk, y'know � remember the Edith Cavell/Tolpuddle look in last month's Femole?'

'He's talking rubbish again, isn't he?'

'Yes,' said Joffy and I in unison.

'Hello, Mum,' I said, giving her a hug, 'remember your grandson?"

She picked him up and remarked how much he had grown. It was unlikely in the extreme that he had shrunk but I smiled dutifully nonetheless. I tried to visit the real world as often as I could but hadn't been able to manage it for at least six months. When she had nearly fainted by hyperventilating with 'Ooohs' and 'Aaaahs' and Friday had stopped looking at her dubiously, she invited us indoors.