The well of lost plots Read Free Page B

the Well wants to be caught out again — we’re being manufactured and then sent to stay in unpublished novels until we are called into service.”
    “Sort of stockpiled, you mean?”
    “I’d prefer the word
billeted
,” replied the one on the left, the slight indignation indicating that it wouldn’t be without a personality forever.
    “How long have you been here?”
    “Two months,” replied the one on the right. “We are awaiting placement at St. Tabularasa’s Generic College for basic character training. I live in the spare bedroom in the tail.”
    “So do I,” added the one on the left. “Likewise.”
    I paused for a moment. “O-kay. Since we all have to live together, I had better give you names. You,” I said, pointing a finger at the one on the right, “are henceforth called
ibb
. You” — I pointed to the other — “are called
obb
.”
    I pointed at them again in case they had missed it as neither made any sign of comprehending what I’d said — or even hearing it.
    “
You
are ibb, and
you
are obb.”
    I paused. Something didn’t sound right about their names but I couldn’t place it.
    “ibb,” I said to myself, then: “obb. ibb. ibb-obb. Does that sound strange to you?”
    “No capitals,” said obb. “We don’t get capitalized until we start school — we didn’t expect a name so soon, either. Can we keep it?”
    “It’s a gift from me,” I told them.
    “I am ibb,” said ibb, as if to make the point.
    “And I am obb,” said obb.
    “And I’m Thursday,” I told them, offering my hand. They shook it in turn slowly and without emotion. I could see that this pair weren’t going to be a huge bundle of fun.
    “And that’s Pickwick.”
    They looked at Pickwick, who plocked quietly, came out from behind the sofa, settled herself on her egg and pretended to go to sleep.
    “Well,” I announced, clapping my hands together, “does anyone know how to cook? I’m not very good at it and if you don’t want to eat beans on toast for the next year, you had better start to learn. I’m standing in for Mary, and if you don’t get in my way, I won’t get in yours. I go to bed late and wake up early. I have a husband who doesn’t exist and I’m going to have a baby later this year so I might get a little cranky — and overweight. Any questions?”
    “Yes,” said the one on the left. “Which one of us is obb, did you say?”
     
     
    I unpacked my few things in the small room behind the flight deck. I had sketched a picture of Landen from memory and I placed it on the bedside table, staring at it for a moment. I missed him dreadfully and wondered, for the umpteenth time, whether perhaps I shouldn’t be here hiding, but out
there
, in my own world, trying to get him back. Trouble was, I’d tried that and made a complete pig’s ear of it — if it hadn’t have been for Miss Havisham’s timely rescue, I would still be locked up in a Goliath vault somewhere. With our child growing within me I had decided that flight was not a coward’s option but a sensible one — I would stay here until the baby was born. I could then plan my return, and following that, Landen’s.
    I went downstairs and explained to obb the rudiments of cooking, which were as alien to it as having a name. Fortunately I found an old copy of
Mrs. Beeton’s Complete Housekeeper
, which I told obb to study, half-jokingly, as research. Three hours later it had roasted a perfect leg of lamb with all the trimmings. I had discovered one thing about Generics already: dull and uninteresting they may be — but they learn fast.
     
2.
Inside
Caversham Heights
     
Book/YGIO/1204961/: Title:
Caversham Heights
. UK, 1976, 90,000 words. Genre: Detective fiction. Book Operating System: BOOK V7.2. Grammasite Infestation: 1 (one) nesting pair of Parenthiums (protected). Plot: Routine detective thriller with stereotypical detective Jack Spratt. Set in Reading (England), the plot (such as it is) revolves around a drug czar