Something rotten by Jasper Fforde Page A

size that works on sidewalks and paths—bore rapidly down upon us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.
    “Are you okay?” asked Hamlet, helping me to my feet.
    “I’m fine—thanks to you.”
    “Goodness!” said a workman, running up to us and turning a valve to shut off the roller. “Are you all right?”
    “Not hurt in the least. What happened?”
    “I don’t know,” replied the workman, scratching his head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
    “Really, I’m fine.”
    We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner of the shop didn’t look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about what he could charge to insurance.
    “You see?” I said to Hamlet as we walked away.
    “What?”
    “This is exactly what I mean. A lot happens in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from now; as it is it means nothing—after all, not every incident in life has a meaning.”
    “Tell that to the scholars who study me, ” Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before adding, “If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Overlong, detailed to the point of distraction—and ultimately, without a major resolution.”
    “Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “that’s exactly what we like about it.”

    We reached the SpecOps Building. It was of a sensible Germanic design built during the occupation, and it was here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with Acheron Hades’ plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of Jane Eyre . Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.
    “Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?”
    “Please.”
    We walked into the Café Goliathe opposite. The same one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour before he was eradicated.
    “Hey!” said the man behind the counter who seemed somehow familiar. “We don’t serve those kind in here!”
    “What kind?”
    “The Danish kind.”
    Goliath was obviously working with Kaine on this particular nonsense.
    “He’s not Danish. He’s my cousin Eddie from Wolverhampton.”
    “Really? Then why is he dressed like Hamlet?”
    I thought quickly. “Because . . . he’s insane. Isn’t that right, Cousin Eddie?”
    “Yes,” said Hamlet, to whom feigning madness was not much of a problem. “When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”
    “See?”
    “Well, that’s all right, then.”
    I started as I realized why he seemed familiar. It was Mr. Cheese, one of the Goliath corporate bullies that Brik Schitt-Hawse had employed. He and his partner, Mr. Chalk, had made my life difficult before I left. He didn’t have his goatee anymore, but it was definitely him. Undercover? I doubted it—his name was on his Café Goliathe badge with, I noted, two gold stars, one for washing up and the other for latte frothing. But he didn’t show any sign of recognizing me.
    “What will you have, Ham—I mean, Cousin Eddie?”
    “What is there?”
    “Espresso, mocha, latte, white mocha, hot chocolate, decaf, recaf, nocaf, somecaf, extracaf, Goliachino™ . . . what’s the matter?”
    Hamlet had started to tremble, a look of pain and hopelessness on his face as he stared wild-eyed at the huge choice laid out in front of him.
    “To espresso or to latte, that is the question,” he muttered, his free will evaporating rapidly. I had asked Hamlet for something he couldn’t easily supply: a decision. “Whether ’tis tastier on the palate to choose white mocha over plain,” he continued in a rapid garble, “or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by