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

coast for a few weeks,” I told him.
    “Ah, you made me fifty pounds when you won the ladies’ boxing last weekend. I’m very grateful.”
    I smiled and thanked him but he wasn’t paying me any attention — he was busy studying a map.
    “We’re going here, Corporal.”
    I studied the chart. It was the closest to the front lines I’d ever been. To my shame, I found the perceived danger somewhat intoxicating. Landen sensed it.
    “It’s not as wildly exciting as you might think, Next. I’ve been up there twenty times and was only shelled once.”
    “What was it like?”
    “Disagreeably noisy. Take the road to Balaklava — I’ll tell you when to turn right.”
    So we bumped off up the road, past a scene of such rural tranquillity that it was hard to imagine that two armies were facing each other not ten miles away with enough firepower to lay the whole peninsula to waste.
    “Ever seen a Russian?” he asked as we passed military trucks supporting the frontline artillery batteries; their sole job was to lob a few shells towards the Russians — just to show we were still about.
    “Never, sir.”
    “They look just like you and me, you know.”
    “You mean they don’t wear big furry hats and have snow on their shoulders?”
    The sarcasm wasn’t wasted.
    “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to patronize. How long have you been out here?”
    “Two weeks.”
    “I’ve been here two
years
, but it might as well be two weeks. Take a right at the farmhouse just ahead.”
    I slowed down and cranked the wheel round to enter the dusty farm track. The springs on a Dingo are quite hard — it was a jarring ride along the track, which passed empty farm buildings, all bearing the scars of long-past battles. Old and rusting armor and other war debris was lying abandoned in the countryside, reminders of just how long this static war had been going on. Rumor had it that in the middle of no-man’s-land there were still artillery pieces dating from the nineteenth century. We stopped at a checkpoint, Landen showed his pass and we drove on, a soldier joining us up top “as a precaution.” He had a second ammunition clip taped to the first in his weapon — always a sign of someone who expected trouble — and a dagger in his boot. He had only fourteen words and twenty-one minutes left before he was to die amongst a small spinney of trees that in happier times might have been a good place for a picnic. The bullet would enter below his left shoulder blade, deflect against his spine, go straight through his heart and exit three inches below his armpit, where it would lodge in the fuel gauge of the Dingo. He would die instantly and eighteen months later I would relate what had happened to his parents. His mother would cry and his father would thank me with a dry throat. But the soldier didn’t know that. These were my memories, not his.
    “Russian spotter plane!” hissed the doomed soldier.
    Landen ordered me back to the trees. The soldier had eleven words left. He would be the first person I saw killed in the conflict but by no means the last. As a civvy you are protected from such unpleasantries, but in the forces it is commonplace — and you never get used to it.
    I pulled the wheel over hard and doubled back towards the spinney as fast as I could. We halted under the protective cover of the trees and watched the small observation plane from the dappled shade. We didn’t know it at the time, but an advance party of Russian commandos were pushing towards the lines in our direction. The observation post we were heading for had been overrun half an hour previously, and the commandos were being supported by the spotter plane we had seen — and behind them, twenty Russian battle tanks with infantry in support. The attack was to fail, of course, but only by virtue of the VHF wireless set carried in the Dingo. I would drive us out of there and Landen would call in an airstrike. That was the way it had happened. That’s the