Part 6 (1/2)

This was a new approach; I ran the idea around in my head.

'Really?' I replied, slightly doubtfully.

'Of course!' Snell laughed. 'Surf pounding the s.h.i.+ngle 'Surf pounding the s.h.i.+ngle wouldn't mean diddly unless you'd seen the waves cascade on to the foresh.o.r.e, or felt the breakers tremble the beach beneath your feet, now, would it?' wouldn't mean diddly unless you'd seen the waves cascade on to the foresh.o.r.e, or felt the breakers tremble the beach beneath your feet, now, would it?'

'I suppose not.'

'Books,' said Snell, 'are a kind of magic.'

I thought about this for a moment and looked around at the chaotic fiction factory. My husband was was or or is is a novelist I had always wanted to know what went on inside his head and this, I figured, was about the nearest I'd ever get. a novelist I had always wanted to know what went on inside his head and this, I figured, was about the nearest I'd ever get. 7 We walked on, past a shop called 'A Minute Pa.s.sed'. It sold descriptive devices for marking the pa.s.sage of time this week they had a special on Seasonal Changes. We walked on, past a shop called 'A Minute Pa.s.sed'. It sold descriptive devices for marking the pa.s.sage of time this week they had a special on Seasonal Changes.

'What happens to the books which are unpublished?' I asked wondering whether the characters in Caversham Heights Caversham Heights really had so much to worry about. really had so much to worry about.

'The failure rate is pretty high,' admitted Snell, 'and not just for reasons of dubious merit. Bunyan's Bunyan's Bootsc.r.a.per Bootsc.r.a.per by John McSquurd is one of the best books ever written but it's never been out of the author's hands. Most of the dross, rejects or otherwise unpublished just languish down here in the Well until they are broken up for salvage. Others are so bad they are just demolished the words are pulled from the pages and tossed into the Text Sea.' by John McSquurd is one of the best books ever written but it's never been out of the author's hands. Most of the dross, rejects or otherwise unpublished just languish down here in the Well until they are broken up for salvage. Others are so bad they are just demolished the words are pulled from the pages and tossed into the Text Sea.'

'All the characters are just recycled like waste cardboard or something?'

Snell paused and coughed politely.

'I shouldn't waste too much sympathy on the one-dimensionals, Thursday. You'll run yourself ragged and there really isn't the time or resources to recharacterise them into anything more interesting.'

'Mr Snell, sir?'

It was a young man in an expensive suit, and he carried what looked like a very stained pillowcase with something heavy in it about the size of a melon.

'h.e.l.lo, Alfred!' said Snell, shaking the man's hand. 'Thursday, this is Garcia he has been supplying the Perkins & Snell series of books with intriguing plot devices for over ten years. Remember the unidentified torso found floating in the Humber in Dead among the Living Dead among the Living? Or the twenty-year-old corpse discovered with the bag of money bricked up in the spare room in Requiem for a Safecracker Requiem for a Safecracker?

'Of course!' I said, shaking the technician's hand. 'Good intriguing page-turning stuff. How do you do?'

'Well, thank you,' replied Garcia, turning back to Snell after smiling politely. 'I understand the next Perkins & Snell novel is in the pipeline and I have a little something that might interest you.'

He held the bag open and we looked inside. It was a head. More importantly, a severed severed head. head.

A head in a bag?' queried Snell with a frown, looking closer.

'Indeed,' murmured Garcia proudly, 'but not any any old head-in-a-bag. This one has an intriguing tattoo on the nape of the neck. You can discover it in a skip, outside your office, in a deceased suspect's deep-freeze the possibilities are endless.' old head-in-a-bag. This one has an intriguing tattoo on the nape of the neck. You can discover it in a skip, outside your office, in a deceased suspect's deep-freeze the possibilities are endless.'

Snell's eyes flashed excitedly. It was the sort of thing his next book needed after the critical savaging of Wax Lyrical for Death Wax Lyrical for Death.

'How much?' he asked.

'Three hundred,' ventured Garcia.

'Three hundred?!' exclaimed Snell. 'I could buy a dozen head-in-a-bag plot devices with that and still have change for a missing n.a.z.i gold consignment.'

Garcia laughed. 'No one's using the old ”missing n.a.z.i gold consignment” plot device any more. If you don't want the head you can pa.s.s I can sell heads pretty much anywhere I like. I just came to you first because we've done business before and I like you.'

Snell thought for a moment.

'A hundred and fifty.'

'Two hundred.'

'One seven five.'

'Two hundred and I'll throw in a case of mistaken ident.i.ty, a pretty female double agent and a missing microfilm.'

'Done!'

'Pleasure doing business with you,' said Garcia as he handed over the head and took the money in return.

'Give my regards to Mr Perkins, won't you?'

He smiled, shook hands with us both, and departed.

'Oh, boy!' exclaimed Snell, excited as a kid with a new bicycle. 'Wait until Perkins sees this! Where do you think we should find it?'

I thought in all honesty that 'head-in-a-bag' plot devices were a bit lame, but being too polite to say so, I said instead: 'I liked the deep-freeze idea, myself.'

'Me too!' he enthused as we pa.s.sed a small shop whose painted headboard read: Backstories built to Backstories built to order. No job too difficult. Painful childhoods a speciality order. No job too difficult. Painful childhoods a speciality.

'Backstories?'

'Sure. Every character worth their salt has a backstory. Come on in and have a look.'

We stooped and entered the low doorway. The interior was a workshop, small and smoky. There was a workbench in the middle of the room liberally piled with gla.s.s retorts, test tubes and other chemical apparatus; the walls, I noticed, were lined with shelves that held tightly stoppered bottles containing small amounts of colourful liquids, all with labels describing varying styles of backstory, from one named idyllic childhood idyllic childhood to another ent.i.tled to another ent.i.tled valiant war record valiant war record.

'This one's nearly empty,' I observed, pointing to a large bottle with: Misguided feelings of guilt over the Misguided feelings of guilt over the death of a loved one/partner ten years previously death of a loved one/partner ten years previously written on the label. written on the label.

'Yes,' said a small man in a corduroy suit so lumpy it looked as though the tailor was still inside doing alterations, 'that one's been quite popular recently. Some are hardly used at all. Look above you.'

I looked up at the full bottles gathering dust on the shelves above. One was labelled Studied squid in Sri Studied squid in Sri Lanka Lanka and another and another Apprentice Welsh mole-catcher Apprentice Welsh mole-catcher.

'So what can I do for you?' enquired the backstoryist, gazing at us happily and rubbing his hands.

'Something for the lady? Ill-treatment at the hands of s.a.d.i.s.tic stepsisters? Traumatic incident with a wild animal? No? We've got a deal this week on unhappy love affairs; buy one and you get a younger brother with a drug problem at no extra charge.'

Snell showed the merchant his Jurisfiction badge.

'Business call, Mr Grnksghty this is apprentice Next.'

'Ah!' he said, deflating slightly. 'The law.'

'Mr Grnksghty here used to write backstories for the Brontes and Thomas Hardy,' explained Snell, placing his bag on the floor and sitting on a table edge.

'Ah, yes!' replied the man, gazing at me over the top of a pair of half-moon spectacles. 'But that was a long time ago. Charlotte Bronte, now she was was a writer. A lot of good work for her, some of it barely used-' a writer. A lot of good work for her, some of it barely used-'

'Yes, speaking,' interrupted Snell, staring vacantly at the array of gla.s.sware on the table. 'I'm with Thursday down in the Well ... What's up?'

He noticed us both staring at him and explained: 'Footnoterphone. It's Miss Havisham.'