Lost in a Good Book

  'No,' replied Miss Havisham. 'Thursday?'

  'Er … no also,' I replied.

  'Good,' said the Bellman, signing a docket and tearing it off. 'Take this to Wemmick in Stores.'

  He left us and called to Foyle and the Red Queen about a missing person named Cass in Silas Marner.

  'Did you understand any of that?' asked Miss Havisham kindly.

  'Not much.'

  'Good!' Miss Havisham smiled. 'Confused is exactly how all cadets to Jurisfiction should enter their first assignment!'

  26

  Assignment one: bloophole in Great Expectations

  * * *

  'Bloophole: Term used to describe a narrative hole by the author that renders his/her work seemingly impossible. An unguarded bloophole may not cause damage for millions of readings but then, quite suddenly and catastrophically, the book may unravel itself in a very dramatic fashion. Hence the Jurisfiction saying: "A switch in a line can save a lot of time".

  Textmarker: An emergency device that outwardly resembles a flare pistol. Designed by the Jurisfiction Design & Technology department, the textmarker allows a trapped PRO to "mark" the text of the book they are within using a predesignated code of bold, italics, underlining, etc , unique to the agent. Another agent may then jump in at the right page to effect a rescue. Works well as long as the rescuer is looking for the signal.'

  UA OF W CAT – The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)

  Miss Havisham told me to get some tea and meet her back at her table, so I walked across to the refreshments.

  'Good evening, Miss Next,' said a well-dressed young man who had joined me. 'Vernham Deane, resident cad of The Squire of High Potternews, D. Farquitt, 1256 pages, softcover £3.99.'

  I shook his hand.

  'I know what you're thinking.' He smiled. 'No one much likes Daphne Farquitt but she sells a lot of books and she's always been pretty good to me – apart from the chapter where I ravish the serving girl at Potternews Hall and then callously deny it and have her fired. I didn't want to, believe me.'

  'I've not read the book,' I told him.

  'Ah!' he said with some relief, then added: 'You have a good teacher in Miss Havisham. Solid and dependable, but a stickler for rules. There are many short cuts here that the more mature members either frown upon or have no knowledge of; will you permit me to show you around some time?'

  'Thank you, Mr Deane – I accept.'

  'Vern,' he said, 'call me Vern. Listen, don't rely too heavily on the ISBN numbers. The Bellman's a bit of a technophile, and although the ISBN Positioning System might seem to have its attractions, I should keep one of Bradshaw's maps with you as a back-up at all times.'

  'I'll bear that in mind.'

  'And don't worry about old Harris. His bark is a lot worse than his bite. He looks down on me because I'm from a racy pot-boiler, but listen – I can hold my own against him any day!'

  He poured some tea for us both before continuing.

  'He was trained during the days when cadets were cast into The Pilgrim's Progress and told to make their own way out. He thinks all us young 'uns are soft as soap. Don't you, Tweed?'

  Harris Tweed had approached with an empty coffee cup.

  'What are you blathering about, Deane?' he asked, scowling like thunder.

  'I was telling Miss Next here that you think we're all a bit soft.'

  Harris took a step closer, glared at Deane and then fixed me with a steady eye.

  'Has Havisham mentioned the Well of Lost Plots to you?' he asked.

  'The cat mentioned it. Unpublished books, I think he said.'

  'Not just unpublished. The Well of Lost Plots is where vague ideas ferment into sketchy plans. This is the Notion Nursery. The Word Womb. Go down there and you'll see outlines coalescing on the shelves like so many primordial life forms. The spirits of roughly sketched characters flit about the corridors in search of plot and dialogue before they are woven into the story. If they get lucky, the book finds a publisher and rises into the Great Library above.'

  'And if they're unlucky?'

  'They stay in the basement. But there's more. Below the Well of Lost Plots is another basement. Sub-basement twenty-seven. No one talks of it much. It's where deleted characters, poor plot devices, half-baked ideas and corrupt Jurisfiction agents go to spend a painful eternity. Just remember that.'

  He looked at Deane, gave another scowl, filled up his coffee cup and left. As soon as he was out of earshot, Vernham turned to me and said:

  'Old wives' tales. There's no Sub-basement twenty-seven.'

  'Sort of like using the Jabberwock to frighten children, yes?'

  'Well, not really,' replied Deane thoughtfully, 'because there is a Jabberwock Frightfully nice fellow – good at fly-fishing and plays the bongos. I'll introduce you some time.'

  He looked at his watch.

  'Goodness. Well, hey-ho, see you about!'

  Despite Vern's assurances about Harris Tweed's threats I still felt nervous. Was jumping into a copy of Poe from my side enough of a misdemeanour to attract Tweed's ire? And how much training would I need before I could even attempt to rescue Jack Schitt? I returned to Miss Havisham – whose desk, I noticed, was as far from the Red Queen's as one could get – and laid her tea in front of her.

  'What do you know about Sub-basement twenty-seven?' I asked her.

  'Old wives' tales,' replied Havisham, concentrating on the report she was filing. 'One of the other PROs trying to frighten you?'

  'Sort of.'

  I looked around while Miss Havisham busied herself. There seemed to be a lot of activity in the room; PROs melted in and out of the air around me with the Bellman moving around, reading instructions from his clipboard. My eyes alighted on a shiny horn that was connected to a polished wood-and-brass device on the desk by a flexible copper tube. It reminded me of a very old form of gramophone – something that Thomas Edison might have come up with

  Miss Havisham looked up, saw I was trying to read the instructions on the brass plaque and said:

  'It's a Footnoterphone. Try it out if you wish.'

  I took the horn and looked inside. There was a cork plug pushed into the end attached to a short chain. I looked at Miss Havisham.

  'Just give the title of the book, page, character, and if you really want to be specific, line and word.'

  'As simple as that?'

  'As simple as that.'

  I pulled out the plug and heard a voice say:

  'Operator services. Can I help you?'

  'Oh! Yes, er, book-to-book, please.' I thought of a novel I had been reading recently and chose a page and line at random. 'It Was a Dark and Stormy Night, page 156, line four.'

  'Trying to connect you. Thank you for using FNP Communications.'

  There were a few clicking noises and I heard a man's voice saying:

  '… and our hearts, though stout and brave, still like muffled …'

  The operator came back on the line.

  'I'm sorry, we had a crossed line. You are through now, caller, thank you for using FNP Communications.'

  Now all I could hear was the low murmur of conversation above the sound of ship engines. At a loss to know what to say I just garbled:

  'Antonio?'

  There was the sound of a confused voice and I hurriedly replaced the plug.

  'You'll get the hang of it,' said Havisham kindly, putting her report down. 'Paperwork! My goodness. Come along, we've got to visit Wemmick in Stores. I like him so you'll like him. I won't expect you to do much on this first assignment – just stay close to me and observe. Finished your tea? We're off!'

  I hadn't, of course, but Miss Havisham grabbed my elbow and before I knew it we were back in the huge entrance lobby. Our footsteps rang out on the polished floor as we crossed to one side of the vestibule, where a small counter not more than six feet wide was set into the deep red marble wall. A battered notice told us to take a number and we would be called.

  'Rank must have its p
rivileges!' cried Miss Havisham gaily as she walked to the front of the queue. A few of the Jurisfiction agents looked up but most were too busy swotting up on their pass notes, cramming for their impending destinations.

  Harris Tweed was in front of us, kitting up for his trip into The Lost World. On the counter before him there was a complete safari suit, knapsack, binoculars and revolver.

  '—and one Rigby .416 sporting rifle, plus sixty rounds of ammunition.'

  The storekeeper laid a mahogany rifle box on the counter and shook his head sadly.

  'Are you sure you wouldn't prefer an M16? A charging Stegosaurus can take some stopping, I'll be bound.'

  'An Mi6 would be sure to raise suspicions, Mr Wemmick. Besides, I'm a bit of a traditionalist at heart.'

  Mr Wemmick sighed, shook his head and handed the clipboard to Tweed for him to sign. Harris grunted his thanks to Mr Wemmick, signed the top copy, had the docket stamped and returned to him before he gathered up his possessions, nodded respectfully at Miss Havisham, ignored me and then murmured: '… long, dark, wood-panelled corridor lined with bookshelves …' before vanishing.

  'Good day, Miss Havisham!' said Mr Wemmick politely as soon as we stepped up. 'And how are we this day?'

  'In health, I think, Mr Wemmick. Is Mr Jaggers quite well?'

  'Quite well to my way of thinking I should say, Miss Havisham, quite well.'

  'This is Miss Next, Mr Wemmick. She has joined us recently.'

  'Delighted!' remarked Mr Wemmick, who looked every bit as he was described in Great Expectations. That is to say, he was short, had a slightly pockmarked face, and had been that way for about forty years.

  'Where are you two bound?'

  'Home!' said Miss Havisham, laying the docket on the counter.

  Mr Wemmick picked up the piece of paper and looked at it for a moment before disappearing into the storeroom and rummaging noisily.

  'The stores are indispensable for our purposes, Thursday. Wemmick quite literally writes his own inventory. It all has to be signed for and returned, of course, but there is very little that he doesn't have. Isn't that so, Mr Wemmick?'

  'Exactly so!' came a voice from behind a large pile of Turkish costumes and a realistic rubber bison.

  'By the way, can you swim?' asked Miss Havisham.

  'Yes.'

  Mr Wemmick returned with a small pile of items.

  'Life vests, life-preserving for the purpose of – two. Rope, in case of trouble – one. Lifebelt, to assist Magwitch buoyancy – one. Cash, for incidental expenses – ten shillings and fourpence. Cloak, for disguising said agents Next and Havisham, heavy duty, black – two. Packed supper – two. Sign here.'

  Miss Havisham picked up the pen and paused before signing.

  'We'll need my boat, Mr Wemmick,' she said, lowering her voice.

  'I'll Footnoterphone ahead, Miss H,' said Wemmick, winking broadly. 'You'll find it on the jetty.'

  'For a man you are not bad at all, Mr Wemmick!' said Miss Havisham. 'Thursday, gather up the equipment!'

  'What now?' I asked, weighed down by the large canvas bag.

  'Dickens is within walking distance,' explained Havisham, 'but it's better practice for you if you jump us straight there – there are over fifty thousand miles of shelf space.'

  'Ah – okay, I know how to do that,' I muttered, putting down the bag, taking out my travel book and flicking to the passage about the library.

  'Hold on to me as you jump and think Dickens as you read.'

  So I did, and within a trice we were at the right place in the library.

  'How was that?' I asked quite proudly.

  'Not bad,' said Havisham. 'But you forgot the bag.'

  'Sorry.'

  'I'll wait while you get it.'

  So I read myself back to the lobby, retrieved the bag to a few friendly jibes from Deane, and returned – but by accident to a series of adventuresome books for plucky girls by someone named Charles Pickens, so I read the library passage again and was soon with Miss Havisham.

  'This is the outings book,' she said without looking up. 'Name, destination, date, time – I've filled it in already. Are you armed?'

  'Always – do you expect any trouble?'

  Miss Havisham drew out her small pistol, released the twin barrels, pivoted it upward and gave me one of her more serious stares.

  'I always expect trouble, Thursday. I was on HPD – Heathcliff Protection Duty – in Wuthering Heights for two years and, believe me, the ProCaths tried everything – I personally saved him from assassination eight times.'

  She extracted a spent cartridge, replaced it with a live one and locked the barrels back into place.

  'But Great Expectations? Where's the danger there?'

  She rolled up her sleeve and showed me a livid scar on her forearm.

  'Things can turn pretty ugly even in Toytown,' she explained. 'Believe me, Larry is no lamb – I was lucky to escape with my life.'

  I must have been looking slightly nervous because she went on:

  'Everything okay? You can bale out whenever you want, you know. Say the word and you'll be back in Swindon before you can say "Mrs Hubbard".'

  She looked at me intensely and I thought of the baby. I'd survived the sales with no ill effects – how hard could 'footling' with the back-story of a Dickens novel be? Besides, I needed all the practice I could get.

  'Ready when you are, Miss Havisham.'

  She nodded, rolled down her sleeve again, pulled Great Expectations from the bookshelf and opened it on one of the reading desks.

  'We need to go in before the story really begins so this is not a standard book jump. Are you paying attention?'

  'Yes, Miss Havisham.'

  'Good. I've no desire to go through this more than once. First, read us into the book.'

  I did as she bade – making quite sure I had hold of the bag this time – and there we were, in among the gravestones on the opening page of Great Expectations, the chill and dampness in the air, the fog drifting in from the sea. On the far side of the graveyard a small boy was crouching among the weathered stones, talking to himself as he stared at two gravestones set to one side. But there was someone else there. In fact, there was a group of people, digging away at an area just outside the churchyard walls on the opposite side to the boy, illuminated in the fading light by two powerful electric lights fed by a small generator that hummed to itself some distance away.

  'Who are they?' I whispered.

  'Okay,' hissed Havisham, not hearing me straight away, 'now we jump to wherever we want by … What did you say?'

  I nodded in the direction of the group. One of their number pushed a wheelbarrow along a plank and dumped its contents on to a large pile of spoil.

  'Good heavens!' exclaimed Miss Havisham, walking briskly towards the small group. 'It's Commander Bradshaw!'

  I trotted after her, and I soon saw that the digging was of an archaeological nature. Pegs were set in the ground and joined by lengths of string, delineating the area in which the volunteers were scraping with trowels, all trying to make as little noise as possible. Sitting on a folding safari seat was a man dressed like a big-game hunter. He wore a safari suit, pith helmet and sported both a monocle and a large and bushy moustache. He was also barely three feet tall. When he got up from his chair, he was shorter.

  ' 'Pon my word, it's the Havisham girlie!' he said in a hoarse whisper. 'Estella, you're looking younger every time I see you!'

  Miss Havisham thanked him and introduced me. Bradshaw shook me by the hand and welcomed me to Jurisfiction.

  'What are you up to, Trafford?' asked Havisham.

  'Archaeology for the Charles Dickens Foundation, m'girl. A few of their scholars are of the belief that Great Expectations began not in this churchyard but in Pip's house when his parents were still about. There is no manuscriptual evidence so we thought we'd have a little dig around the environs and see if we could pick up any evidence of previously overwritten scenes.'

  'Any
luck?'

  'We've struck a reworked idea that ended up in Our Mutual Friend, a few dirty limericks and an unintelligible margin squiggle – but nothing much.'

  Havisham wished him well; we said our goodbyes and left them to their dig.

  'Is that unusual?'

  'You'll find around here that there is not much that is usual,' replied Havisham. 'It's what makes this job such fun. Where did we get to?'

  'We were going to jump into the pre-book back-story.'

  'I remember. To jump forward we have only to concentrate on the page numbers, or, if you prefer, a specific event. To go backward before the first page we have to think of negative page numbers or an event that we assume happened before the book began.'

  'How do I picture a negative page number?'

  'Visualise something – an albatross, say.'

  'Yes?'

  'Okay, now take the albatross away.'

  'Yes?'

  'Now take another albatross away.'

  'How can I? There are no albatrosses left!'

  'Okay; imagine I have lent you an albatross to make up your seabird deficit. How many albatrosses have you now?'

  'None.'

  'Good. Now relax while I take my albatross back.'

  I shivered as a coldness swept through me and for a fleeting moment an empty, vaguely albatross-shaped void opened and closed in front of me. But the strange thing was, for that briefest moment I understood the principle involved – but then it was gone like a dream upon waking. I blinked and stared at Havisham.

  'That,' she announced, 'was a negative albatross. Now you try it – only use page numbers instead of albatrosses.'

  I tried hard to picture a negative page number but it didn't work and I found myself in the garden of Satis House, watching two boys square up for a fight. Miss Havisham was soon beside me.

  'What are you doing?'

  'I'm trying—'

  'You are not, my girl There are two sorts of people in this world, doers and tryers. You are the latter and I am trying to make you the former. Now concentrate, girl!'

  So I had another attempt and this time found myself in a curious tableau resembling the graveyard in Chapter 1 but with the graves, wall and church little more than cardboard cut-outs. The two featured characters, Magwitch and Pip, were also very two-dimensional and as still as statues – except that their eyes swivelled to look at me as I jumped in.