Read Online The well of lost plots by Jasper Fforde - Free Book Online Page A

“but not
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.”
    Snell’s eyes flashed excitedly. It was the sort of thing his next book needed after the critical savaging of
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 Nazi gold consignment.”
    “No one’s using the old ‘missing Nazi gold consignment’ plot device anymore.” Garcia laughed. “If you don’t want the head you can pass — 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 seventy-five.”
    “Two hundred and I’ll throw in a case of mistaken identity, 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-freezer idea, myself.”
    “Me, too!” Snell enthused as we passed a small shop whose painted headboard read:
Backstories built to order. No job too difficult. Painful childhoods a specialty
.
    “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. A workbench in the middle of the room was liberally piled with glass retorts, test tubes and other chemical apparatus; the walls, I noticed, were lined with shelves that held tightly stoppered bottles containing small amounts of colorful liquids, all with labels describing varying styles of backstory, from one named
Idyllic childhood
to another entitled
Valiant war record
.
    “This one’s nearly empty,” I observed, pointing to a large bottle with
Misguided feelings of guilt over the death of a loved one/partner ten years previously
written on the label.
    “Yes,” said a small man in a corduroy suit so lumpy it looked as though the tailor were 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 labeled
Studied squid in Sri Lanka
and another,
Apprentice Welsh mole catcher
.
    “So what can I do for you?” inquired the backstoryist, gazing at us happily and rubbing his hands. “Something for the lady? Ill treatment at the hands of sadistic 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 Brontës 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 from over the top of a pair of half-moon spectacles. “But that was a long time ago. Charlotte Brontë, now she
was
a writer. A lot of good work for her, some of it barely used—”
    “Yes, speaking,” interrupted Snell, staring vacantly at the array of glassware on the table. “I’m with Thursday down in the