Something rotten by Jasper Fforde

chapter with you in London making your way to Kaine’s office disguised as a cleaning woman.”
    “Excuse me!” said a suited gentleman who looked suspiciously like a solicitor. “But are you Thursday Next?”
    I glanced nervously at Hamlet.
    “Perhaps.”
    “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Wentworth of Wentworth, Wentworth and Wentworth, Solicitors. I’m the second Wentworth, if you’re interested.”
    “And?”
    “And . . . I wonder if I could have your autograph? I followed your Jane Eyre escapade with a great deal of interest.”
    I breathed a sigh of relief and signed his autograph book. Mr. Wentworth thanked me and hurried off.
    “You had me worried for a moment there,” said Hamlet. “I thought I was meant to be the fictitious one.”
    “You are.” I smiled. “And don’t you forget it.”

    “Twenty-two thousand pounds?” I said to the cashier. “Are you sure?”
    The cashier looked at me with unblinking eyes, then at Hamlet, who was standing over me a bit indelicately.
    “Quite sure. Twenty-two thousand, three hundred eight pounds and four shillings three pence ha’penny— overdrawn, ” she added, in case I had missed it. “Your landlord sued you for dodo-related tenancy violations and won five thousand pounds. Since you weren’t here, we upped your credit limit when he demanded payment. Then we raised the limit again to pay for the additional interest.”
    “How very thoughtful of you.”
    “Thank you. Goliath First National Friendly always aims to please.”
    “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go with the ‘wealthy aunt’ scenario?” asked Hamlet, being no help at all.
    “No. Shhh.”
    “We haven’t had a single deposit from you for nearly two and a half years,” continued the bank clerk.
    “I’ve been away.”
    “Prison?”
    “No. So the rest of my overdraft is . . . ?”
    “Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you haven’t got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn’t reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you hadn’t received, further letters asking for a response because we have an odd sense of humor—you know how it all adds up! Can we expect a check in the near future?”
    “Not really. Um . . . any chance of raising my credit limit?”
    The cashier arched an eyebrow. “I can get you an appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we can send expensive letters demanding money?”

    I gave them Mum’s address and made an appointment to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several closing-down sales—one of which I had witnessed with Miss Havisham.
    Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have avoided that whole stupid sock episode in Lake Wobegon Days .
    “Okay, I give up,” said Hamlet quite suddenly. “How does it all turn out?”
    “How does what all turn out?”
    He spread his arms out wide.
    “All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the small dodo, that SuperHoop thing and the big company—what’s it called again?”
    “Goliath?”
    “Right. How does it all turn out?”
    “I haven’t the slightest idea. Out here our lives are pretty much an unknown quantity.”
    Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept. “How do you live here not knowing what the future might bring?”
    “That’s part of the fun. The pleasure of anticipation.”
    “There is no pleasure in anticipation,” said Hamlet glumly. “Except perhaps,” he added, “in killing that old fool Polonius.”
    “My point exactly,” I replied. “Where you come from, events are preordained and everything that happens to you has some sort of relevance further on in the story.”
    “It’s clear you haven’t read Hamlet for a— LOOK OUT! ”
    Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small steamroller—the