Something Rotten

19 Cloned Will Hunting

Sunday was meant to be a day off but it didn't really seem like it. I played golf with Braxton in the morning and outside work he was as amiable a gent as I could possibly hope to meet. He delighted in showing me the rudiments of golf and once or twice I hit the ball quite well — when it made the thwack noise and flew away as straight as a die I suddenly realised what all the fuss was about. It wasn't all fun and games, though — Braxton had been leaned on by Flanker, who, I assume, had been leaned on by somebody else higher up. In between putting practice and attempting to get my ball out of a bunker, Braxton confided that he couldn't hold off Flanker for ever with his empty promise of a report into my alleged Welsh cheese activities, and if I knew what was good for me I would have to at least try to look for banned books with SO-14. I promised I would and then joined him for a drink at the nineteenth hole, where we were regaled with stories by a large man with a red nose who was, apparently, the Oldest Member.

I was awoken on Monday morning by a burbling noise from Friday. He was standing up in his cot and trying to grasp the curtain, which was out of his reach. He said that now that I was awake I could do a lot worse than take him downstairs where he could play whilst I made some breakfast. Well, he didn't use those precise words, of course — he said something more along the lines of 'Reprehenderit in voluptate velit id est mollit', but I knew what he meant.

I couldn't think of any good reason not to, so I pulled on my dressing gown and took the little fellow downstairs, pondering on quite who, if anyone, was going to look after him today. Given that I had nearly got into a fight with Jack Schitt, I wasn't sure he should witness all that his mum got up to.

My mother was already up.

'Good morning, Mother,' I said, cheerfully, 'and how are you today?'

I'm afraid not during the morning,' she said, divining my unasked question instantly, 'but I can probably manage from teatime onwards.'

'I'd appreciate it,' I replied, looking at The Mole as I put on the porridge. Kaine had issued an ultimatum to the Danish: either the government in Denmark ended all its efforts to destabilise England and undermine our economy, or England would have no choice but to recall its ambassador. The Danish had replied that they didn't know what Kaine was talking about and demanded that the trade ban on Danish goods be lifted. Kaine responded angrily, made all sorts of counter-claims, imposed a 200 per cent tariff on Danish bacon imports and closed all avenues of communication.

'Duis aute irure dolor est!' yelled Friday.

'Keep your hair on,' I replied, 'it's coming.'

'Plink!' said Alan angrily, gesturing towards his supper dish indignantly.

'Wait your turn,' I told him.

'Plink, PLINK! he replied, taking a step closer and opening his beak in a menacing manner.

'Try and bite me,' I told him, 'and you'll be finding a new owner from the front window of Pete & Dave's!'

Alan figured out that this was a threat and closed his beak. Pete & Dave's was the local re-engineered pet store, and I was serious. He'd already tried to bite my mother and even the local dogs were giving the house a wide berth.

At that moment Joffy opened the back door and walked in. But he wasn't alone. He was with something that I can only describe as an untidy bag of thin bones covered in dirty skin and a rough blanket.

'Ah!' said Joffy. 'Mum and Sis. Just the ticket. This is St Zvlkx. Your Grace, this is my mother, Mrs Next, and my sister, Thursday.'

St Zvlkx looked at me suspiciously from behind a heavy curtain of oily black hair.

'Welcome to Swindon, Mr Zvlkx,' said my mother, curtsying politely. 'Would you like some breakfast?'

'He only speaks Old Enlish,' put in Joffy. 'Here, let me translate.'

'Oi, Pig-face — are you going to eat, or what?'

'Ahh!' said the monk, and sat down at the table. Friday stared at him a little dubiously, then started to jabber Lorem Ipsum at him while the monk stared at him dubiously.

'How's it all going?' I asked.

'Pretty good,' replied Joffy, pouring some coffee for himself and St Zvlkx. 'He's shooting a commercial this morning for the Toast Marketing Board and will be on The Adrian Lush Show at four. He's also guest speaker at the Swindon Dermatologists Convention at the Finis; apparently some of his skin complaints are unknown to science. I thought I'd bring him round to see you — he's full of wisdom, you know.'

'It's barely eight in the morning!' said Mum.

'St Zvlkx rises with the dawn as a penance,'Joffy explained. 'He spent all of Sunday pushing a peanut around the Brunei Centre with his nose.'

'I spent it playing golf with Braxton Hicks.'

'How did you do?'

'Okay, I think. My croquet-playing skills stopped me making a complete arse of myself. Did you know that Braxton had six kids?'

'Well, how about some wisdom, then?' said my mother brightly. 'I'm very big on thirteenth-century sagacity.'

'Okay,' said Joffy. 'Oi! Make yourself useful and give us some wisdom, you old fart.'

'Poke it up your arse.'

'What did he say?'

'Er — he said he would meditate upon it.'

'Well,' said my mother, who was nothing if not hospitable and could just about make breakfast without consulting the recipe book, 'since you are our guest, Mr Zvlkx, what would you like for breakfast?'

St Zvlkx stared at her.

'Eat,' repeated my mother, making biting gestures. This seemed to do the trick.

'Your mother has firm breasts for a middle-aged woman, orb-like and defying gravity. I should like to play with them, as a baker plays with dough.'

'What did he say?'

'He says he'd be very grateful for bacon and eggs,' replied Joffy quickly, turning to St Zvlkx and saying: 'Any more crap out of you, sunshine, and I'll lock you in the cellar tomorrow night as well.'

'What did you say to him?'

'I thanked him for his attendance in your home.'

'Ah.'

Mum put the big frying pan on the cooker and broke some eggs into it, followed by large rashers of bacon. Pretty soon the smell of bacon pervaded the house, something that attracted not only a sleepwalking DH82 but also Hamlet and Lady Hamilton, who had given up pretending they weren't sleeping together.

'Hubba, hubba,' said St Zvlkx as soon as Emma entered, 'who's the bunny with the scrummy hooters?'

'He wishes you — um — both good morrow,' said Joffy, visibly shaken. 'St Zvlkx, this is Lady Hamilton anb Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'

'If you're giving one of those puppies,' continued St Zvlkx, staring at Emma's cleavage, 'I'll have the one with the brown nose.'

'Good morning,' said Hamlet without smiling. 'Any more bad language in front of the good Lady Hamilton and I'll take you outside and with a bare bodkin your quietus make.'

'What did the prince say?' asked St Zvlkx.

'Yes,' said Joffy, 'what did he say?'

'It's Courier Bold,' I told him, 'the traditional language of the BookWorld. He said that he would be failing in his duty as a gentleman if he allowed Zvlkx to show any disrespect to Lady Hamilton.'

'What did your sister say?' asked St Zvlkx. 'She said that if you insult Hamlet's bird again your nose will be two foot wide across your face.'

'Oh.'

'Well,' said my mother, 'this is turning out to be a very pleasant morning!'

'In that case,' said Joffy, sensing the time was just right, 'could St Zvlkx stay here until midday? I've got to give a sermon to the Sisters of Eternal Punctuality at ten and if I'm late they throw their prayer books at me.'

'No can do, o son my son,' said my mother, flipping the bacon. 'Why not take St Zvlkx with you? I'm sure the nuns will be impressed by his piety.'

'Did someone mention nuns?' asked St Zvlkx, looking around eagerly.

'How you got to be a saint I have no idea,' chided Joffy. 'Another peep out of you and I'll personally kick your bulgar arse all the way back to the thirteenth century.'

St Zvlkx shrugged, wolfed down his bacon and eggs with his hands and then burped loudly. Friday did the same and collapsed into a fit of giggles.

They all left soon after. Joffy wouldn't look after Friday and Zvlkx certainly couldn't, so there was nothing for it. As soon as Mum had found her hat, coat and keys and gone out, I rushed upstairs, dressed, then read myself into Bradshaw Defies the Kaiser to ask Melanie whether she would look after Friday until teatime. Mum had said she would be out the whole day, and since Hamlet already knew that Melanie was a gorilla and neither Emma nor Bismarck could exactly complain since they were long-dead historical figures themselves, I thought it a safe bet. It was against regulations, but with Hamlet and the world facing an uncertain future, I was past caring.

Melanie happily agreed, and once she had changed into a yellow polka-dot dress I brought her out of the BookWorld to my mother's front room, which she thought very smart, especially the festoon curtains. She was pulling the cord to watch the curtains rise and fall when Emma walked in.

'Lady Hamilton,' I announced, 'this is Melanie Bradshaw.'

Mel put out a large hand and Emma shook it nervously, as though expecting Melanie to bite her or something.

'H-how do you do?' she stammered. 'I've never been introduced to a monkey before.'

'Ape,' corrected Melanie helpfully. 'Monkeys generally have tails, are truly arboreal and belong to the families Hylobatidae, cebidae and Cercopithecidae. You and I and all the Great Apes are Pongidae. I'm a gorilla. Well, strictly speaking I'm a mountain gorilla — Gorilla gorilla beringei — which live on the slopes of the Virunga volcanoes — we used to call it British East Africa but I'm not sure what it is now. Have you ever been there?'

'No.'

'Charming place. That's where Trafford — my husband — and I met. He was with his gun bearers hacking his way through the undergrowth during the backstory to Bradshaw Hunts Big Game (Collins, 1878, 4/6d, illustrated) and he slipped from the path and fell twenty feet into the ravine below where I was taking a bath.'

She picked Friday up in her massive arms and he chortled with delight.

'Well, I was most dreadfully embarrassed. I mean, I was sitting there in the running water without a stitch on, but — and I'll always remember this — Trafford politely apologised and turned his back so I could nip into the bushes and get dressed. I came out to ask him if he might want directions back to civilisation — Africa was quite unexplored then, you know — and we got to chatting. Well, one thing led to another and before I knew it he had asked me out to dinner. We've been together ever since. Does that sound silly to you?'

Emma thought about how her relationship with Admiral Lord Nelson was lampooned mercilessly in the press.

'No, I think that sounds really quite romantic.'

'Right,' I said, clapping my hands, 'I'll be back at three. Don't go out and if anyone calls, get Hamlet or Emma to answer the door. Okay?'

'Certainly,' replied Melanie, 'don't go out, don't answer the door. Simple.'

'And no swinging on the curtains or lamp fixtures — they won't stand it.'

'Are you saying I'm a bit large?'

'Not at all,' I replied hastily, 'things are just different in the real world. There is lots of fruit in the bowl and fresh bananas in the refrigerator. Okay?'

'No problemo. Have a nice day.'

I drove into town and, avoiding several newspapermen who were still eager to interview me, entered the SpecOps building, which I noted had been freshly repainted since my last visit. It looked a bit more cheery in mauve, but not much.

'Agent Next?' said a young and extremely keen SO-14 agent in a well-starched black outfit, complete with Kevlar vest, combat boots and highly visible weaponry.

'Yes?'

He saluted.

'My name is Major Drabb, SO-14. I understand you have been assigned to us to track down more of this pernicious Danish literature.'

He was so keen to fulfil his duties I felt chilled. To his credit he would be as enthusiastic helping flood victims; he was just following orders unquestioningly. Worse acts than destroying Danish literature had been perpetrated by men like this. Luckily, I was prepared.

'Good to see you, Major. I had a tip-off that this address might hold a few copies of the banned books.'

I passed him a scrap of paper and he read it eagerly.

'The Albert Schweitzer Memorial Library? We'll be on to it right away.'

And he saluted smartly once again, turned on his heel and was gone.

I made my way up to the LiteraTecs' office and found Bowden in the process of packing Karen Blixen's various collections of stories into a cardboard box.

'Hi!' he said, tying up the box with string. 'How are things with you?'

'Pretty good. I'm back at work.'

Bowden smiled, put down the scissors and string and shook my hand.

'That's very good news indeed! Heard the latest? Daphne Farquitt has been added to the list of banned Danish writers.'

'But . . . Farquitt isn't Danish!'

'Her father's name was Farquittsen, so it's Danish enough for Kaine and his idiots.'

It was an interesting development. Farquitt's books were pretty dreadful but burning was still a step too far. Just.

'Have you found a way to get all these banned books out of England?' asked Bowden, running some tape across a box of Out of Africas. 'With Farquitt's books and all the rest of the stuff that's coming in, I think we'll need closer to ten trucks.'

'It's certainly on my mind,' I replied, having not done anything about it at all.

'Excellent! We'd like to take a convoy through as soon as you give the word. Now, what do you want me to brief you on first? The latest Capulet versus Montague drive-by shooting or which authors are next up for a random dope test?'

'Neither,' I replied. 'Tell me everything you know about cloned Shakespeares.'

'We've had to put that on "low priority". It's intriguing, to be sure, but ultimately pointless from a law-and-order point of view — anyone involved in their sequencing will be too dead or too old to go for trial.'

'It's more of a BookWorld thing,' I responded, 'but important, I promise.'

'Well, in that case,' began Bowden, who knew me too well to think I'd waste his time or my own, 'we have three Shakespeares on the slab at the moment, all aged between fifty and sixty — put those Hans Christian Andersen books in that box, would you? If they were cloned it was way back in the poorly regulated days of the thirties, when there was all sorts of nonsense going on, when people thought they could engineer Olympic runners with four legs, swimmers with real fins, that sort of thing. I've had a brief trawl through the records. The first confirmed WillClone surfaced in 1952 with the accidental shooting of a Mr Shakstpear in Tenbury Wells. Then there's the unexplained death of a Mr Shaxzpar in 1958, Mr Shagxtspar in 1962 and a Mr Shogtspore in 1969. There are others, too—'

'Any theories as to why?'

'I think,' said Bowden slowly, 'that perhaps someone was trying to synthesise the great man so they could have him write some more great plays. Illegal and morally reprehensible, of course, but potentially of huge benefit to Shakespearean scholars everywhere. The lack of any young Shakespeares turning up makes me think this was an experiment long since abandoned.'

There was a pause as I mulled this over. Genetic cloning of entire humans was strictly forbidden — no commercial bioengineering company would dare try it, and yet no one but a large bioengineering company would have the facilities to undertake it. But if these Shakespeare clones had survived, chances were there were more. And with the real one long dead, his re-engineered other self was the only way we could unravel The Merry Wives of Elsinore.

'Doesn't this come under the jurisdiction of SO-13?' I said at last.

'Officially, yes,' conceded Bowden, 'but SO-13 is as underfunded as we are and Agent Stiggins is far too busy dealing with mammoth migrations and chimeras to have anything to do with cloned Elizabethan playwrights.'

Stiggins was the Neanderthal head of the cloning police. Legally re-engineered by Goliath, he was the ideal person to run SO-13.

'Have you spoken to him?' I asked.

'He's a Neanderthal,' he replied, 'they don't talk at all unless it's absolutely necessary. I've tried a couple of times but he just stares at me in a funny way and eats live beetles from a paper bag — yuk.'

'He'll talk to me,' I said. He would, too. I still owed him a favour for when he got me out of a jam with Flanker. 'Let's see if he's about.'

I picked up the phone, consulted the internal directory and dialled a number.

I watched as Bowden boxed up more banned books. If he was caught he'd be finished. The irony of a LiteraTec being jailed for protecting Farquitt's Canon of Love — I liked him all the more for it. No one in the Literary Detectives would knowingly harm a book. We'd all resign before torching a single copy of anything.

'Right,' I said, replacing the receiver, 'his office said there was a chimera alert in the Brunei Centre — we should be able to find him there.'

'Whereabouts in the centre?'

'If it's a chimera alert, we just follow the screams.'