J.

  xxviij

  ZUTPHEN Avermann shifted his weight in the motorised wheelchair.

  "Veda," he said. "It is an unusual name."

  "It's Sanskrit," said Veda. "It means 'knowledge'. It's one of the four Hindu holy books."

  "Hmmm," mused Avermann. "You are twenty-six years old. You took A Levels in English, German and History, and studied English Literature at university. You got an Upper Second - a somewhat ill-thought-out piece on Joycean Narrative cost you a First - then you took a certificate in journalism." Avermann glanced at the bundle of papers resting on his tartan shawl. "Let us go back a little further. For the fuller picture, as it were.

  "You were destined for journalism, it seems. You won the English prize when you were fifteen with an essay arguing against the testing of cosmetics on animals. You came top of the year in the summer exams.

  "When you were seven, you fell out of an apple tree and chipped a tooth. When you were twelve, you were suspended from school because you pulled another girl's hair and made her cry. She had stolen some sweets from one of your friends. You had a remarkably refined sense of social justice but it did not prevent you being punished."

  "How do you know all this?" Veda felt suddenly very frightened.

  Avermann, piercing her with an icy blue stare, simply continued his catalogue. "When you were thirteen, you joined the county schools orchestra - you played the flute. Your test piece was by Johann Joachim Quantz. You played hockey for your school, scoring eighteen goals in your first season at Under 14 level.

  "At fifteen, you developed a crush on the hockey mistress and decided you wanted to be a lesbian when you grew up, but then, when you played Helena in the School Play, A Midsummer Night's Dream, you fell in love with the boy who played Bottom. You lost your virginity to him at the after-show party when he had you on the floor of his parents' bathroom. He persuaded you to take a look at their new avocado suite with gold-plated taps. Your sister, two years younger, found out and told your mother..."

  "All right," said Veda, embarrassed. "So you know my life-story. Big deal."

  "But you didn't bear grudges," Avermann purred. "When your sister got pregnant at the age of sixteen, you worked in a supermarket during your first term at university to raise the money for an abortion. You finished your studies and went to the States, to Boston, on a postgraduate exchange scheme before returning to England to join the staff of the Herald and Bugle straight after college, and have been there three years. You had your appendix removed when you were twenty-two. You have ₤645.08 in your bank account and a gas bill for ₤45.60 is still unpaid." Avermann folded his hands. "This is not exceptional, my dear. We know everything about everyone. In this kind of detail. Our files are enormous, our records immaculate." He held up the papers. "See for yourself."

  And Veda saw

  her old school's crest on one fading buff folder;

  curling, watery photographs of herself, her family, her friends clipped together;

  letters on stiff paper, purple, pink, yellow, rose, all colours;

  her diary, kept from the ages of 12 to 17 and containing all her teenage angsts about Ms Lamb the hockey mistress;

  numerous bank statements;

  all the pieces she had written for the paper;

  all her job applications;

  university admissions forms;

  references;

  school reports:

  Veda's efforts in Mathematics have been lessening as the term has progressed. She will need to improve her attitude....

  An excellent year's work in History has been crowned by an outstanding examination essay about John Jay's Treaty.

  She glanced at transcripts of recent telephone conversations:-

  TRS

  V Hello?

  (Editor) Veda, darling. How was the play?

  V Fine.

  Ed I heard it was awful.

  V No. It was ....quite lively, actually.

  Ed Well, I've something less... exhausting for you today. There's an exhibition opening this afternoon at the Jorum Gallery. So dig out your posh frock, and set your taste buds for lashings of Lanson.

  TRS

  (sister) Hi, Ved. How's it going?

  V Yeah, fine. How about you?

  S Can't complain.

  V And Jack?

  S Just the same.

  V Still coming down in August?

  S Sure... got to finish your garden, and the spare room needs doing. How's the kitchen floor holding up? And the tiles in the bathroom. Don't you think they're warm?

  and a newspaper review of an old school concert praising her performance of a Quantz trio for flute, violin and harpsichord, with a girl called Mabel playing the fiddle and Jeremy, her itinerant pianist and one time boyfriend (Everyone had hoped Veda and Jeremy would "get it together", and they did, for several wild, wonderful nights of passion one steamy post-A Level July, when he had played a toccata on her virginal.) and a photograph of the County's victorious Hockey team, with Veda in the centre, holding her stick and credited with scoring the winning goals in the County Cup Final

  and masses of bank statements showing transfers, direct debits, cheque payments in and out, numbered, dated and detailed

  and a photo and ground-plan of Jasmine Cottage

  and the closing lines of a pretty poor sonnet written about Ms Lamb -

  Loving this landscape, dizzy, and ill,

  Her absence leaves my heart bereft:

  The mountains rising and smoothly curved hill,

  The valley deep, with mysterious cleft:

  Smooth-limbed, sweet, the hockey teacher,

  A lamb of gold, a beautiful creature,

  A lamb who can play in my fields and grass

  And gamboll all day in the landscape at last.

  The page was completed with a doodle of a lamb skipping over a hillock and a couple of flowers that looked remarkably like kisses and a rainbow somehow contriving to resemble the curve of a hockey stick.

  "How did you get all this?" She overcame her desperate embarrassment and found her voice at last.

  "All school reports and exam results are filed with the Department of Education. All medical files are accessed by the Department of Health. All police records, CCTV pictures, security checks, driving licence applications are held by the Home Office, MI5, Special Branch and, of course, the police. All your financial details are held on computer and accessed by Inland Revenue, Customs and Excise, credit reference agencies. All of these are the tools of Government, bankrolled by the Establishment, and extensions of the Consistory. Of course, identity cards with magnetic strips will simplify our tasks considerably. The information they contain is invaluable. You have no idea what those strips carry. But we do. We know."

  "The 'phone calls, the letters..."

  "Telephones can be tapped," said Avermann dismissively, "Are tapped. Letters are X-rayed and photographed. Technology, my dear, is a valuable tool in our surveillance of the population."

  "But the personal stuff ... diaries, poems, photographs..."

  "The Consistory's agents are everywhere," Avermann purred.

  "Some must slip through your net," said Veda, defiantly.

  He paused, mused for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't think so. We have files this detailed on every subject of the UK."

  "And all this is to control the people?"

  "Absolutely." Avermann paused momentarily. "And to destroy JASOn, and when JASOn lands its people on the shores of Jura to rescue you, my dear, then... we shall have these traitors!"

  "I wonder you can talk of traitors so comfortably," said Veda, "Given that your own father betrayed his country and sold his people into slavery."

  Tantivy drew in a sharp, shocked breath. Tulchan bunched his fists. The woman dropped her duster. Avermann jerked, as though he'd been punched.

  "Your father," Veda continued, "Who betrayed his nation to the Nazis..."

  "The Knicker-Nicker has been speaking ou
t of turn." He looked at Tantivy. "You will have some lively sport tonight with that fine fellow."

  The wolfish, rapacious smile spreading slowly over the pug-face made Veda shudder.

  "Do not," continued Avermann smoothly, handing Veda the paper, "Believe everything the Tarboy tells you." He took a cigar from the breast pocket of his immaculate navy blazer and cut the end with a penknife. Veda watched as he placed it between his lips and fumbled for a gold lighter, squatting malevolently in his wheelchair and blowing smoke through his nostrils like some great crippled jabberwocky. "The Tarboy is a dirty-minded little pervert who grubs through people's smalls. He is the kind of individual that needs control, the kind of individual who damages the fabric of society, the kind of individual…"

  "Who needs locking away," said Veda, "Although he's quite harmless."

  "Harmless? It isn't your place to decide who is harmless and who is not," said Avermann. "Now JASOn, they are harmless. Foolish eccentrics, with their folk bands and velcro jumping and their secret codes. But the people behind them, Julius' League, they are dangerous, and they must be stopped."

  "By people like your father denouncing them to the secret police."

  "My father was a patriot," the Dutchman replied, "For a patriot, my dear, sometimes needs to defend his country against its Government. My father recognised that only strong, principled Government could preserve our nation, that our politicians were incapable of providing such strength, such leadership, such moral integrity, and firmness of purpose."

  "So he allied himself with a foreign power," said Veda.

  "There are many historical precedents for such an action," said Avermann. "My ancestor Jan Ruud Avermann came to England with the Prince of Orange, your William III, in response to an invitation from members of the English government. They believed your king James was damaging the moral fabric of the country by encouraging religious tolerance, Catholics, Non-Conformists, even Quakers."

  "I never thought the church promoted tolerance," mused Veda. "Especially then, in the Renaissance."

  "Not the Church," corrected Avermann, "The Popes Julius. The Reformation was a Reclamation, an attempt to return the church, and Europe, to its radical roots, to renew its zealotry." Avermann laughed. "Luther was merely our pawn."

  "Pope Adrian..."

  "Was our instrument. But they murdered him." Avermann glared into the fire. "You thought Henry VIII left the Catholic church so that he could marry his mistress. Oh no, Henry VIII was instructed by us to lead his country away from the kind of seditious heresy endorsed by Julius and his League. Free-thinking. Art. Theatre. Books and culture accessible even to the groundlings, the petty stinkards, giving them ideas above their station, like David Thomas the Earl of Jedburgh, commoners mixing with royalty… bah!" He tapped a thick, solid circle of black ash into his palm. "Enough of the history lesson. You know all this. You've read Jarkman. And Vanderbildt. Although they are both biased." He beckoned to the woman, and transferred the ash to her apron pocket. "Vanderbildt should know better. He trained at the Rijksmuseum. He comes from Den Haag." He drew on his cigar again. "Tantivy," he snapped. "Fetch the file."

  The rain beat steadily against the window. Despite the chill, Veda felt the heat from the log-fire stifling her.

  "We have plenty of information on JASOn, my dear." Avermann took a bundle of papers from Pug-Face. "This is the J. List."

  He handed her a loose-leaf binder. It contained full biographies of nearly two hundred people, alphabetically listed, all identified as members of JASOn, all accompanied by a photograph. Veda scanned the index. Jarrah Jambres, Jackie Jezail, Julep Jejune - all were listed, along with people she didn't know, although presumably had met. There were plenty of people from the choral society, from the Jacquard Club, from strange trainspotting groups and communes. There were names familiar to her, and others that were new-

  №. 14

  Jacinth Jarley

  is a middle-aged cleaning lady and mother of two. She is Hon. Secretary to the organisation known as the Sisters of Jezebel. The Sisters are a quasi-feminist movement who, objecting to the portrayal of women in art, devote their time to draping nudes with blankets and daubing paint over exposed flesh in paintings. They regard the depiction of the male organ as symbolic of the phallocentric nature of society and a mark of oppression. The high point of their activities came when the Sisters severed the penis from a replica of Michelangelo's David, claiming to have emasculated masculine art and thus to have struck a blow for feminists everywhere, not realising that the sculpted figure represents, in fact, a sublimation of the artist's own homosexual desires.

  Mrs Jarley is a car park enthusiast and arranges her annual holidays to take in famous car park sites of the world. Each year she pitches her tent in a selected car park, usually on the twelfth floor, or twenty-sixth if it is a particularly large car park, and explores the architecture, location and interior design of her chosen destination, as well as monitoring the ingress and egress of traffic. She has a copious collection of photographs.

  The rest of this entry is sub-judice subject to a pending prosecution for an alleged urination incident in the lift shaft of a car park in Toulouse, France. Mrs Jarley's defence claims that the physical manoeuvrings necessary for a woman to urinate into a lift shaft are in fact dangerous to the point of foolhardiness, a characteristic for which Mrs Jarley is not noted.

  Mrs Jarley is not named after a character in Dicken's novel The Old Curiosity Shop. The sameness of name is purely coincidental.

  №.26

  Jamal Jincx

  is a Belgian pet shop owner and breeder of argonauts and other cephalapod molluscs. He lives in a small town west of Bruges and studies the behaviour of bats in various cave systems throughout central Europe. His favoured technique is to squat in the opening of such a cavern and squeak whilst wielding a tape recorder on which a reply might be captured. The recording is then analysed and translated into Flemish. Jamal Jincx is currently studying the lyrics of Eric Clapton's album Journeyman with a view to translating them into Pipistrelle. He is believed by some watchers to be somewhat batty.

  Jamal Jincx is a fervent follower of the Cult of St Joanna of Castile, known as Joanna the Mad. Whilst her son became Charles V and one of the most powerful rulers in the history of Europe, Joanna, heartbroken by the death of her husband in 1506, spent fifty years in a state of insanity. She is known principally for her Book of Hours, made for her marriage to Philip the Fair (of Burgundy) in 1496, and as the King of Spain's daughter in the rhyme "I had a little nut tree", inspired by a visit she paid to the court of Henry VII of England in 1506.

  №. 35

  Jaçana Jabiru

  is a sixteen year old beauty from Janiculum Park. A member of the Sisters of Jezebel from the age of twelve, she sabotaged the jacuzzi of an aggressive male woodwork teacher who had tried to seduce her among the wood shavings one evening after class by cramming jelly into the inflowing bubble tube. This action brought her acclamation among the Sisters and an appointment at the age of 14 to be Virgin of the Joust. She had, prior to this piece of plumbing prestidigitatation, thrown her teacher off balance by throwing him into the wood shavings with a finely executed judo move which dislocated his shoulder and wrenched his preferred groping fingers so badly that he ended up in plaster.

  Jaçana Jabiru is an enthusiastic amateur actress and a member of the Jericho Academy for Young Singers, where she is a friend of, perhaps even the girlfriend of, Iestyn Thomas (qv). Her greatest role to date is that of Judy in 'Punch and Judy', an interpretation which owes much to Japonica Jimp's groundbreaking study linking the Punch and Judy story to Japanese Zen Judaism "Noh, No and Noah: Same coin, different sides"; this study claims that Judy's playing of the trumpet to wake Mr Punch has a parallel in the story of Joshua at the Battle of Jericho.

  Besides playing Judy in various parties des jardins, Jaçana Jabiru works as a waitress in The Journey's End restaurant preparing jardinières under the supervision of the chef. It is be
lieved, but remains uncorroborated by any independent and objective source, that Jaçana Jabiru has a Jolly Roger tattooed on her left buttock in commemoration of the pirate captain killed by Davy Thomas near Santiago della Compostella.

  №. 41

  This entry has been removed.

  It did belong to a Martin Clark but that identity was found to have been faked and the name invented.

  Further enquiries are under way.

  №. 42

  Unidentified

  №. 42 was a picture-

  "Is this all you have on number 42?" she said, staggered by the half-head image.

  "It's the best we could get," said Avermann.

  It looked familiar. Veda felt a cold finger run up her spine. It was the same picture she had found in her Yellow Pages back at Jasmine Cottage.

  "Except for this one." He reached over again and turned the page to reveal-