When It's A Jar

When It's A Jar

Maurice has just killed a dragon with a bread knife. And had his destiny foretold. . . and had his true love spirited away. That's precisely the sort of stuff that'd bring out the latent heroism in anyone. Unfortunately, Maurice is pretty sure he hasn't got any latent heroism. Meanwhile, a man wakes up in a jar in a different kind of pickle (figuratively speaking). He can't get out, of course, but neither can he remember his name, or what gravity is, or what those things on the ends of his legs are called. . . and every time he starts working it all out, someone makes him forget again. Forget everything . Only one thing might help him. The answer to the most baffling question of all. . . When is a door not a door? "Wacky humor bubbles through the polished narrative... Holt doesn't skimp on the flashes of brilliance."― SFX "Uniquely twisted...cracking gags..." --- The Guardian (UK) "Frantically wacky and willfully confusing...gratifyingly clever and very amusing." --- Mail on Sunday " Blonde Bombshell is a clever, funny, tirelessly inventive, apocalyptic leg-hump of a book." --- Christopher Moore, New York Times bestselling author Tom Holt was born in London in 1961. At Oxford he studied bar billiards, ancient Greek agriculture and the care and feeding of small, temperamental Japanese motorcycle engines; interests which led him, perhaps inevitably, to qualify as a solicitor and emigrate to Somerset, where he specialized in death and taxes for seven years before going straight in 1995. He lives in Chard, Somerset, with his wife and daughter. When It's A Jar By Tom Holt Orbit Copyright © 2013 Tom Holt All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-316-22612-7 CHAPTER 1 When Is A Door— Years ago, when he was a child, Maurice refused to go on the Underground becausehe was scared of all the dead people. His father had asked him a few questionsand glanced at his bedside table, and explained that the Under ground wasn't the same thing as the Under world that he'd been reading about inhis Myths & Legends of the Ancient Greeks book, which his aunt Jane hadgiven him for his birthday. There were no dead people, three-headed dogs orsinister boatmen down there, his father promised him, just crowded platforms,unreliable trains, people in scruffy old coats who talked to themselves, areally quite small proportion of homicidal lunatics and a rather unsavourysmell. He'd been reassured (though he'd secretly quite fancied seeing a dog withthree heads) and withdrawn his objection. Nevertheless, even now, there wassomething about it— Especially at night, in the uneasy lull between the rush hour and the lastjunkies-drunks-and-theatre-goers specials, when the platforms are quiet anddeserted and nobody can hear you scream; when the tiled corridors echofootsteps, and the trains, when they finally arrive, come bursting out of thedarkness like dragons. Since he'd had to work late at the officerecently–not because there was work to be done, but because the firm wasrationalising, so everyone was sticking to their desks like limpets afternominal going-home time, to show how indispensable they were–he'd had morethan his comfortable ration of nocturnal Tube travel recently, and it wasstarting to get on his nerves. There were three people in the compartment when he got in, all women. There wasan elderly bag lady in a thick wool coat, muttering to herself and knitting whatlooked like a sock. Opposite her was an elegant middle-aged businesswoman, withdark hair and glasses. She was knitting, too; that seemed a little out ofcharacter, but it was just starting to get fashionable again, or so his motherhad told him. In the far corner there was a rather nice-looking girl, and she was knitting, which suggested his mother had been right aboutsomething, for once. In any event, they seemed harmless enough. He chose a seatin the middle of the carriage, sat down, opened his book and raised it in frontof him, like a shield. The windows were black, of course, so there was no visible world outside; all hecould see in the one next to him was the reflection of the pretty girl, and itdidn't do to dwell on pretty girls who might look up and figure out what youwere doing. Instead, he looked up at the advertising boards. One caught hisattention, as it had been designed to do— WHERE IS THEO BERNSTEIN? That was all: white letters on a black background. For a moment he allowedhimself to wonder who Theo Bernstein was and what he was selling. Then herealised he'd been ensnared by evil capitalists and looked away. Out of thecorner of his eye, he saw the elegant businesswoman bite through a strand ofwool with her teeth. It was an incongruously savage act–though perfectlyreasonable, when he thought about it; after all, you aren't allowed to havesharp things on you in a public place. Teeth, however, are the oldest and mostbasic weapons of all. The train had slowed down to the point where, with no view through the window,it was impossible to te