24. Performance-related Pay, Miles Hawke & Norland Park

   ‘Performance-related pay was the bane of SpecOps as much then as it is now. How can your work be assessed when your job is so extraordinarily varied? I would love to have seen Officer Stoker’s review panel listen to what he got up to. It was no surprise to anyone that they rarely lasted more than twenty seconds and he was, as always, awarded an “A++”—“Exceptional service, monthly bonus recommended”.’

THURSDAY NEXT. A Life in SpecOps


   Dog tired, I slept well that night. I had expected to see Landen but dreamt of Humpty Dumpty, which was odd. I went into work, avoided Cordelia again and then had to take my turn with the employment review board, which was all part of the SpecOps work-related pay scheme. Victor would have given us all ‘A++’, but sadly it wasn’t conducted by him—it was chaired by the area commander, Braxton Hicks.
   ‘Ah, Next!’ he said jovially as I entered. ‘Good to see you. Have a seat, won’t you?’
   I thanked him and sat down. He looked at my performance file for the past few months and stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
   ‘How’s your golf?’
   ‘I never took it up.’
   ‘Really?’ he said with surprise. ‘You sounded most keen when we first met.’
   ‘I’ve been busy.’
   ‘Quite, quite. Well, you’ve been with us three months and on the whole your performance seems to be excellent. That Jane Eyre malarkey was a remarkable achievement; it did SpecOps the power of good and showed those bean-counters in London that the Swindon office could hold its own.’
   ‘Thank you.’
   ‘No, really, I mean it. All this PR work you’ve been doing. The Network is very grateful to you and, more than that, I’m grateful to you. I could have been on the scrapheap if it wasn’t for you. I’d really like to shake you by the hand and—I don’t do this very often, y’know—put you up for membership of my golf club. Full membership, no less—the sort usually reserved for men.’
   ‘That’s more than generous of you,’ I said, getting up to leave.
   ‘Sit down, Next—that was just the friendly bit.’
   ‘There’s more?’
   ‘Yes,’ he replied, his smile fading. ‘Despite all of that, your conduct over the past two weeks has been less than satisfactory. I’ve had a complaint from Mrs Hathaway34 to say that you failed to spot her forged copy of Cardenio.’
   ‘I told her it was a forgery in no uncertain terms.’
   ‘That’s your story, Next. I haven’t located your report on the matter.’
   ‘I didn’t think it was worth the trouble to write one, sir.’
   ‘We have to keep on top of paperwork, Next. If the new legislation on SpecOps accountability comes into force we will be under severe scrutiny every time we take a step, so get used to it—and what’s this about you hitting a Neanderthal?’
   ‘A misunderstanding.’
   ‘Hm. Is this also a misunderstanding?’
   He laid a police charge sheet on the desk.
   ‘ “Pemissioning a car to be driven by personn of low moral turpithtude.” You lent your car to a lunatic driver, then helped her to escape the law—what on earth did you think you were doing?’
   ‘The greater good, sir.’
   ‘No such thing,’ he barked back, handing me a SpecOps claim docket. ‘Officer Tillen at Stores gave me this. It’s your claim for a new Browning automatic.’
   I stared dumbly at the docket. My original Browning, the one I had looked after from first issue, had been left in a motorway services somewhere in a patch of Bad Time.
   ‘I take this very seriously, Next. It says here you “lost” SpecOps property in unsanctioned SO-12 work. Flagrant disregard for Network property makes me very angry, Next. There is our budget to think of, you know.’
   ‘I thought it would come down to that,’ I murmured.
   ‘What did you say?’
   ‘I said: “I’ll retrieve it eventually, sir”.’
   ‘Maybe so. But lost property has to come under the monthly current expenditure and not the yearly resupply budget. We’ve been a little stretched recently. Your escapade with Jane Eyre was successful but not without cost. All things considered, I am sorry, but I will have to mark your performance as: “F”—”Definite room for improvement”.’
   ‘An “F”? Sir, I must protest!’
   ‘Talk’s over, Next. I’m truly sorry. This is quite out of my hands.’
   ‘Is this an SO-1 way of punishing me?’ I asked. ‘You know I’ve never had anything lower than an “A” in all my eight years with the service!’
   ‘Raising your voice does you no good at all, young lady,’ replied Hicks in an even tone, wagging his finger as a man might do to his spaniel. ‘This interview is over. I am truly, truly sorry, believe me.’
   I got up, mumbled a reply, saluted and made for the door.
   ‘Wait!’ said Braxton. ‘There’s something else.’
   I returned.
   ‘Yes?’
   He handed over a packet of clothes in a polythene bundle.
   ‘The department is now sponsored by the Toast Marketing Board. You’ll find a hat, T-shirt and jacket in this package. Wear them when you can and be prepared for some corporate entertainment.’
   ‘Sir!’

   ‘Don’t complain. If you hadn’t eaten that toast on The Adrian Lush Show they would never have contacted us. Over a million quid in funding—not to be sniffed at with people like you soaking up the funds. Shut the door on the way out, will you?’
   The morning’s fun wasn’t over. As I stepped out of Braxton’s office I almost bumped into Flanker.
   ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Next. A word with you, if you don’t mind.’
   It wasn’t a request—it was an order. I followed him into an empty interview room and he closed the door.
   ‘Seems to me you’re in such deep shit your eyes will turn brown, Next.’
   ‘My eyes are already brown, Flanker.’
   ‘Then you’re halfway there already. I’ll come straight to the point. You earned six hundred pounds last night to pay back rent.’
   ‘And?’
   ‘The service takes a dim view of moonlighting.’
   ‘It was Stoker at SO-17,’ I told him. ‘I was deputised—all above board.’
   Flanker went quiet. His intelligence-gathering had obviously let him down badly.
   ‘Can I go?’
   Flanker sighed.
   ‘Listen here, Thursday,’ he began in a more moderate tone of voice, ‘we need to know what your father is up to.’
   ‘What’s the problem? Industrial action standing in the way of next week’s cataclysmic event?’
   ‘Freelance navigators will sort it out, Next.’
   He was bluffing.
   ‘You have no more idea about the nature of the armageddon than Dad, me, Lavoisier, or anyone else, do you?’
   ‘Perhaps not,’ replied Flanker, ‘but we at SpecOps are far better suited to having no clue at all than you and that chronupt father of yours.’
   ‘Chronupt?’ I said angrily, getting to my feet. ‘My father? That’s a joke! What is your golden boy Lavoisier doing eradicating my husband, then?’
   There was silence for a moment.
   ‘That’s a very serious accusation,’ observed Flanker. ‘Have you any proof?’
   ‘Of course not; isn’t that the point of eradication?’
   ‘I have known Lavoisier for longer than I would care to forget,’ intoned Flanker gravely, ‘and I have never had anything but the highest regard for his integrity. Making wild accusations isn’t going to help your cause one iota.’
   I sat down again and sighed. Dad had been right. Accusing Lavoisier of any wrongdoing was pointless.
   ‘Can I go?’
   ‘I have nothing to hold you on, Next. But I’ll find something. Every agent is on the make. It’s just a question of digging deep enough.’
   ‘How did it go?’ asked Bowden when I got back to the office.
   ‘I got an “F”,’ I muttered, sinking into my chair.
   ‘Flanker,’ said Bowden, trying on his Eat More Toast cap. ‘Has to be.’
   ‘How did the stand-up go?’
   ‘Very well, I think,’ answered Bowden, dropping the cap in the bin. ‘The audience seemed to find it very funny indeed. So much so that they want me to come back as a regular… What are you doing?’
   I hurriedly hid under the table, slithering to the floor as quickly as I could. I would have to trust Bowden’s quick wits.
   ‘Hello!’ said Miles Hawke. ‘Has anyone seen Thursday?’
   ‘I think she’s at her monthly assessment meeting,’ replied Bowden, whose deadpan delivery was obviously as well suited to lying as it was to stand-up. ‘Can I take a message?’
   ‘No. Just ask her to get in contact, if she could.’
   ‘Why don’t you stay and wait?’ said Bowden. I kicked him under the table
   ‘No, I’d better run along,’ replied Miles. ‘Just tell her I called, won’t you?’
   He walked off and I stood up. Bowden, very unusually for him, was giggling.
   ‘What’s so funny?’
   ‘Nothing—why don’t you want to see him?’
   ‘Because I might be carrying his baby.’
   ‘You’re going to have to speak up, I can hardly hear you.’
   ‘I might,’ I repeated in a hoarse whisper, ‘be carrying his baby!’
   ‘I thought you said it was Land—What’s the matter now?’
   I had dropped to the ground again as Cordelia Flakk walked in. She was scanning the office for me in annoyance, hands on hips.
   ‘Have you seen Thursday about?’ she asked Bowden. ‘She’s got to meet these people of mine.’
   ‘I’m really not sure where she is,’ replied Bowden.
   ‘Really? Then who was it I saw ducking under this table?’
   ‘Hello, Cordelia,’ I said from beneath the table. ‘I dropped my pencil.’
   ‘Sure you did.’
   I clambered out and sat down at my desk.
   ‘I expected more from you, Bowden,’ said Flakk crossly, then turned to me. ‘Now, Thursday. We promised these two people they could meet you. Do you really want to disappoint them? Your public, you know.’
   ‘They’re not my public, Cordelia, they’re yours. You made them for me.’
   ‘I’ve had to keep them at the Finis for another night,’ said Cordelia. ‘Costs are escalating. They’re downstairs right now. I knew you’d be in for your assessment. How did you do, by the way?’
   ‘Don’t ask.’
   I looked at Bowden, who shrugged. Looking for some sort of rescue, I twisted on my seat, looking over to where Victor was running a possible unpublished sequel to 1984 entitled 1985 through the Prose Analyser. All the other members of the office were busy at their various tasks. It looked as if my PR career was just about to restart

   I sighed. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’
   ‘Better than hiding under the desk,’ said Bowden. ‘All that jumping around is probably not good for the baby.’
   He clapped his hand over his mouth but it was too late.
   ‘Baby?’ echoed Cordelia. ‘What baby?’
   ‘Thanks, Bowden.’
   ‘Sorry.’
   ‘Well, congratulations!’ said Cordelia, hugging me. ‘Who is the lucky father?’
   ‘I don’t know.’
   ‘You mean you haven’t told him yet?’
   ‘No, I mean I don’t know. My husband, hopefully.’
   ‘You’re married?’
   ‘No’
   ‘But you said—?’
   ‘Yes, I did,’ I retorted as drily as I could. ‘Confusing, isn’t it?’
   ‘This is very bad PR,’ muttered Cordelia darkly, sitting on the edge of the desk to steady herself. ‘The leading light of SpecOps knocked up in a bus shelter by someone she doesn’t even know!’
   ‘Cordelia, it’s not like that, and I wasn’t “knocked up”—and who mentioned anything about bus shelters? Perhaps the best thing would be if you kept this under your hat and we pretended that Bowden never said anything.’
   ‘Sorry.’
   Cordelia leapt to her feet.
   ‘Good thinking, Next. We can tell everyone you have water retention or an eating disorder brought on by stress.’ Her face fell. ‘No, that won’t work. The Toad will see through it like a shot. Can’t you get married really quickly to someone? What about Bowden? Bowden, would you do the decent thing for the sake of SpecOps?’
   ‘I’m seeing someone over at SpecOps 13,’ replied Bowden hurriedly.
   ‘Blast!’ muttered Flakk. ‘Thursday, any ideas?’
   But this was an aspect of Bowden I knew nothing about.
   ‘You never told me you were seeing someone over at SO-13!’
   ‘I don’t have to tell you everything.’
   ‘But I’m your partner, Bowden!’
   ‘Well, you never told me about Miles.’
   ‘Miles?’ exclaimed Cordelia. ‘The oh-so-handsome-to-die-for Miles Hawke?’
   ‘Thanks, Bowden.’
   ‘Sorry.’
   ‘That’s wonderful!’ exclaimed Cordelia, clapping her hands together. ‘A dazzling couple! “SpecOps wedding of the year!” This is worth soooooo much coverage! Does he know?’
   ‘No. And you’re not going to tell him. And what’s more—Bowden—it might not even be his.’
   ‘Which puts us back to square one again!’ responded Cordelia in a huff. ‘Stay here. I’m going to fetch this chap and his daughter. Bowden, don’t let her out of your sight!’
   And she was gone.
   Bowden stared at me for a moment and then asked:
   ‘Do you really believe the baby is Landen’s?’
   ‘I’m hoping.’
   ‘You’re not married, Thurs. You might think you are but you’re not. I looked at the records Landen Parke-Laine died in 1947.’
   ‘This time he did. My father and I went—’
   ‘You don’t have a father, Thursday. There is no record of anyone on your birth certificate. I think maybe you should speak to one of the stressperts.’
   ‘And end up doing comedy stand-up, arranging pebbles or counting blue cars? No thanks.’
   There was a pause.
   ‘He is very handsome,’ said Bowden.
   ‘Who?’
   ‘Miles Hawke, of course.’
   ‘Oh. Yes, yes, I know he is.’
   ‘Very polite, very popular.’
   ‘I know that.’
   ‘A child without a father—’
   ‘Bowden, I’m not in love with him and it isn’t his baby—okay?’
   ‘Okay, okay. Let’s forget it.’
   We sat there in silence for a bit. I played with a pencil and Bowden stared out of the window.
   ‘What about the voices?’
   ‘Bowden!’
   ‘Thursday, this is for your own good. You told me you heard them yourself and Officers Hurdyew, Tolkien and Lissning heard you talking and listening to someone in the upstairs corridor.’
   ‘Well, the voices have stopped,’ I said categorically. ‘Nothing like that will ever happen again.’ [17]
   ‘Oh, shit.’ [18]

   ‘What do you mean, “oh, shit”?’
   ‘Nothing—just, well, that. I’ve got to use the ladies’ room—would you excuse me?’
   I left Bowden shaking his head sadly and was soon in the ladies’. I checked that the stalls were empty and then said. ‘Miss Havisham, are you there?’ [19]
   ‘You must understand, Miss Havisham, that where I come from customs are different from your own. People curse here as a matter of course.’ [20]
   ‘I’ll be there directly, ma’am!’
   I bit my lip and hurriedly rushed out of the ladies’, grabbed my Jurisfiction travel book and my jacket, and was heading back when—
   ‘Thursday!’ came a loud and strident voice that I knew could only be Flakk’s. ‘I’ve got the winner and his daughter outside in the corridor!’
   ‘I’m sorry, Cordelia, but I have to go to the loo.’
   ‘Don’t think I’m going to fall for that one again,’ she growled under her breath.
   ‘It’s true this time.’
   ‘And the book?’
   ‘I always read on the loo.’
   She narrowed her eyes at me and I narrowed my eyes back.
   ‘Very well,’ she said finally, ‘but I’m coming with you.’
   She smiled at the two lucky winners of her crazy competition, who smiled back through the half-glazed office door, and we both trotted into the ladies’.
   ‘Ten minutes,’ she said to me as I locked myself in a cubicle. I opened the book and started to read:
   Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. ‘Dear, dear Norland!’ said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of them being there…
   The small melamine cubicle started to evaporate and in its place was a large park, bathed in the light of a dying sun, the haze softening the shadows and making the house glow in the failing light. There was a light breeze, and in front of the house a lone girl walked, gazing fondly at the—
   ‘—do you always read aloud in the toilet?’ asked Cordelia from behind the door.
   The images evaporated in a flash and I was back in the ladies’.
   ‘Always,’ I replied. ‘And if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll never be finished.’
   ‘…when shall I cease to regret you!—When I learn to feel a home elsewhere?—Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!—and you, ye well known trees!—but you will continue…’
   The house came back again, the young woman talking quietly, matching her words to mine as I drifted into the book. I was now sitting not on a hard SpecOps standard toilet seat but on a white-painted wrought-iron garden bench. I stopped reading when I was certain I was completely within Sense and Sensibility and listened to Marianne as she finished her speech:
   ‘…and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade! But who will remain to enjoy you?’
   She sighed dramatically, clasped her hands to her breast and sobbed quietly for a moment or two. Then she took one long look at the large white-painted house and turned to face me.
   ‘Hello!’ she said in a friendly voice. ‘I haven’t seen you around here before. Would you be working for Juris-thingummywhatsit?’
   ‘Don’t we have to be careful as to what we say?’ I managed to utter, looking around nervously.
   ‘Goodness me no!’ exclaimed Marianne with a delightful giggle. ‘The chapter is over and, besides, this book is written in the third person. We are free to do what we please until tomorrow morning when we depart for Devon. The next two chapters are heavy with exposition—I hardly have anything to do, and I say even less! You look confused, poor thing! Have you been into a book before?’
   ‘I went into Jane Eyre once.’
   Marianne frowned overdramatically.
   ‘Poor, dear, sweet Jane! I would so hate to be a first-person character! Always on your guard, always having people reading your thoughts! Here we do what we are told but think what we wish. It is a much happier circumstance, believe me!’
   ‘What do you know about Jurisfiction?’ I asked.
   ‘They will be arriving shortly,’ she explained. ‘Mrs Dashwood might be beastly to Mama but she understands self-preservation. We wouldn’t want to suffer the same tragic fate as Confusion and Conviviality, now, would we?’
   ‘Is that Austen?’ I queried. ‘I’ve not even heard of it!’
   Marianne sat down next to me and rested her hand on my arm.
   ‘Mama said it was a socialist collective,’ she confided in a hoarse whisper. ‘There was a revolution—they took over the entire book and decided to run it on the principle of every character having an equal part, from the duchess to the cobbler! I ask you! Jurisfiction tried to save it, of course, but it was too far gone—not even Ambrose could do anything. The entire book was… boojummed!’
   She said the last word so seriously that I would have laughed had she not been staring at me so intently with her dark brown eyes.
   ‘How I do talk!’ she said at last, jumping up, clapping her hands and doing a twirl on the lawn. ‘…and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade.…’
   She stopped and checked herself, placed her hand over her mouth and nose and uttered an embarrassed girlish giggle.
   ‘What a loon!’ she muttered. ‘I’ve said that already! Farewell, Miss… Miss… I beg your pardon but I don’t know your name!’
   ‘It’s Thursday—Thursday Next.’
   ‘What a strange name!’
   She gave a small curtsy in a half-joking way.
   ‘I am Marianne Dashwood and I welcome you, Miss Next, to Sense and Sensibility.’
   ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure I shall enjoy it here.’
   ‘I’m sure you shall. We all enjoy it a great deal—do you think it shows?’
   ‘I think it shows a great deal, Miss Dashwood.’
   ‘Call me Marianne, if it pleases you. May I be so bold as to ask you a favour?’
   ‘Of course.’
   She came closer and sat on the seat with me, holding my hand and staring into my eyes intently.
   ‘Please, I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask when your own book is set?’
   ‘I’m not a book person, Miss Dashwood—I’m from the real world.’
   ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Please excuse me; I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t real or anything. In that case, when, might I ask, is your own world set?’
   I smiled at her strange logic and told her. She leaned closer still.
   ‘Please excuse the impertinence, but would you bring something back next time you come?’
   ‘Such as?’
   ‘Mintolas. I simply adore Mintolas. You’ve heard of them, of course? A bit like Munchies but minty—and, if it’s no trouble, a few pairs of nylon tights. And some AA batteries; a dozen would be perfect.’
   ‘Sure. Anything else?’
   Marianne thought for a moment.
   ‘Elinor would so hate me asking favours from a stranger, but I happen to know she has an inordinate fondness for Marmite—and some real coffee for Mama.’
   I told her I would do what I could. She smiled again, thanked me profusely, pulled on a leather flying helmet and goggles that she had secreted within her shawl, held my hand for a moment and then was gone, running across the lawn.

25. Roll-call at Jurisfiction

   ‘Boojum: Term used to describe the total annihilation of a word/line/character/subplot/book/series. Complete and irreversible, the nature of a boojum is still the subject of some heated speculation. Some past members of Jurisfiction theorise that a Boojum might be a gateway to an “anti-library” somewhere beyond the “imagination horizon”. It is possible that the semi-mythical Snark may hold the key to deciphering what is, at present, a mystery.
   Bowdlerisers: A group of fanatics who attempt to excise obscenity and profanity from all texts. Named after Thomas Bowdler, who attempted to make Shakespeare “family reading” by cutting lines from the plays, believing by so doing that “the transcendental genius of the poet would undoubtedly shine with greater lustre”. Bowdler died in 1825, but his torch is still carried, illegally, by active cells eager to complete and extend his unfinished work at any cost. Attempts to infiltrate the Bowdlerisers have so far met with no success.’

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


   I watched Marianne until she was no longer in sight and then, realising that her ‘…remain to enjoy you line was the last of Chapter 5, and that Chapter 6 begins with the Dashwoods already embarked on their journey, I decided to wait and see what a chapter ending looked like. If I had expected a thunderclap or something equally dramatic, I was to be disappointed. Nothing happened. The leaves in the trees gently rustled, the occasional sound of a woodpigeon reached my ears, and before me a red squirrel hopped across the grass. I heard an engine start up and a few minutes later a biplane rose from the meadow behind the rhododendrons, circled the house twice and then headed off towards the setting sun. I rose and walked across the finely manicured lawn, nodded at a gardener, who tipped his head in response, and made my way to the front door. Norland was never described in that much detail in Sense and Sensibility, but it was every bit as impressive as I thought it would be. The house was located within a broad sweeping parkland which was occasionally punctuated by mature oak trees. In the distance I could see only woods, and beyond them the occasional church spire. Outside the front door there was a Bugatti 356 motor-car and a huge white charger saddled for battle, munching idly on some grass. A large white dog was attached to the saddle by a length of string, and it had managed to wrap itself three times around a tree.
   I trotted up the steps and tugged on the bell-pull. Within a few minutes a uniformed footman answered and looked at me blankly.
   ‘Thursday Next,’ I said. ‘Here for Jurisfiction—Miss Havisham.’ The footman, who had large bulging eyes and a curved head like a frog, opened the door and announced me simply by rearranging the words a bit:
   ‘Miss Havisham, Thursday Next—here for Jurisfiction!’
   I stepped inside and frowned at the empty hall, wondering quite who the footman thought he was actually announcing me to. I turned to ask him where I should go but he bowed stiffly and walked—excruciatingly slowly, I thought—to the other side of the hall, where he opened a door and then stood back, staring at something above and behind me. I thanked him, stepped in and found myself in the central ballroom of the house. The room was painted in white and pale blue and the walls, where not decorated with delicate plaster mouldings, were hung with lavish gold-framed mirrors. Above me the glazed ceiling let in the evening light, but already I could see servants preparing candelabra.
   It had been a long time since the Jurisfiction offices had been used as a ballroom; the floor space was liberally covered with sofas, tables, filing cabinets and desks piled high with paperwork. To one side a table had been set up with coffee urns, and tasty snacks were arrayed upon delicate china. There were two dozen or so people milling about, sitting down, chatting or just staring vacantly into space. I could see Akrid Snell at the far side of the room, speaking into what looked like a small gramophone horn connected by a flexible brass tube to the floor. I tried to get his attention but at that moment—
   ‘Please,’ said a voice close by, ‘draw me a sheep!’
   I looked down to see a young boy of no more than ten. He had curly golden locks and stared at me with an intensity that was, to say the least, unnerving.
   ‘Please,’ he repeated, ‘draw me a sheep.’
   ‘You had better do as he asks,’ said a familiar voice close by. ‘Once he starts on you he’ll never let it go.’
   It was Miss Havisham. I dutifully drew the best sheep I could and handed the result to the boy, who walked away, very satisfied with the result.
   ‘Welcome to Jurisfiction,’ said Miss Havisham, still limping slightly from her injury at Booktastic. ‘I won’t introduce you to everyone straight away but there are one or two people you should know.’
   She took me by the arm and guided me towards a well-dressed lady who was attending to the servants as they laid out some snacks upon the table.
   ‘This is Mrs John Dashwood; she graciously allows us the use of her home. Mrs Dashwood, this is Miss Thursday Next—she is my new apprentice.’
   I shook Mrs Dashwood’s delicately proffered hand and she smiled politely.
   ‘Welcome to Norland Park, Miss Next; you are fortunate indeed to have Miss Havisham as your teacher—she does not often take pupils. But tell me, as I am not so very conversant with contemporary fiction—what book are you from?’
   ‘I’m not from a book, Mrs Dashwood.’
   Mrs Dashwood looked startled for a moment, then smiled even more politely, took my arm in hers, muttered a pleasantry to Miss Havisham about ‘getting acquainted’, and steered me off towards the tea table.
   ‘How do you find Norland, Miss Next?’
   ‘Very lovely, Mrs Dashwood.’
   ‘Can I offer you a Crumbobbilous cutlet?’ she asked in a more agitated manner, handing me a side plate and napkin and indicating the food.
   ‘Or some tea?’
   ‘No thank you.’
   ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Miss Next.’
   ‘You seem most anxious to do so.’
   She glanced furtively to left and right and lowered her voice.
   ‘Does everyone out there think my husband and I are so very cruel, cutting the girls and their mother out of Henry Dashwood’s bequest?’
   She looked at me so very intensely that I wanted to smile.
   ‘Well—’ I began.
   ‘Oh, I knew it!’ gasped Mrs Dashwood with a dramatic flourish. ‘I told John that we should reconsider—I expect out there we are burnt in effigy, reviled for our actions, damned for all time?’
   ‘Not at all,’ I said, attempting to console her. ‘Narratively speaking, without your actions there wouldn’t be much of a story.’
   Mrs Dashwood took a handkerchief from her cuff and dried her eyes, which, to my mind, had not even the smallest tear in them.
   ‘You are so right, Miss Next. Thank you for your kind words. But if you hear anyone speaking ill of me please tell them that it was my husband’s decision—I tried to stop him, believe me!’
   ‘Of course,’ I said, reassuring her. I made my excuses and left to find Miss Havisham.
   ‘We call it Minor Character Syndrome,’ explained Miss Havisham after I rejoined her. ‘Quite common when an essentially minor character has a large consequential part. She and her husband have allowed us the use of this room ever since the trouble with Confusion and Conviviality. In return we make all Jane Austen books subject to our special protection; we don’t want anything like that to happen again. There is a satellite office in the basement of Elsinore Castle run by Mr Falstaff—that’s him over there.’
   She pointed to an overweight man with a florid face who was enjoying a joke with a younger agent dressed in more contemporary clothes.
   ‘Who is he talking to?’
   ‘Vernham Deane; romantic lead in one of Daphne Farquitt’s novels. Mr Deane is a stalwart member of Jurisfiction so we don’t hold it against him—’
   ‘Where is Havisham?’ bellowed a voice like thunder. The doors burst open and a very dishevelled Red Queen hopped in. The whole room fell silent. All, that is, except Miss Havisham, who said in an unnecessarily provocative tone:
   ‘Bargain-hunting just doesn’t suit some people, now does it?’
   The assembled Jurisfiction operatives, realising that all they were witnessing was another round in a long and very personal battle, carried on talking.
   The Red Queen had a large and painful-looking black eye and two of her fingers were in a splint. The sales at Booktastic had not been kind to her.
   ‘What’s on your mind, Your Majesty?’ asked Havisham in an even tone.
   ‘Meddle in my affairs again,’ growled the Red Queen, ‘and I won’t be responsible for my actions!’
   ‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too seriously, Your Majesty?’ said Havisham, always maintaining due regal respect. ‘It was only a set of Farquitts, after all!’
   ‘A boxed set!’ replied the Red Queen coldly. ‘You spitefully took the gift I planned to give to my own dear beloved husband. And do you know why?’
   Miss Havisham pursed her lips and was silent.
   ‘Because you can’t bear it that I’m happily married!’

  ‘Rubbish!’ returned Miss Havisham angrily. ‘We beat you fair and square!’
   ‘Ladies and, er… ladies and majesties, please!’ I said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Do we have to argue here at Norland Park?’
   ‘Ah, yes!’ said the Red Queen ‘Do you know why we use Sense and Sensibility? Why Miss Havisham insisted on it, in fact?’
   ‘Don’t believe this,’ murmured Miss Havisham, ‘it’s all poppycock. Her Majesty is a verb short of a sentence.’
   ‘I’ll tell you why,’ went on the Red Queen angrily. ‘Because in Sense and Sensibility there are no strong father or husband figures!’
   Miss Havisham was silent.
   ‘Face the facts, Estella. Neither the Dashwoods, the Steels, the Ferrar brothers, Eliza Brandon nor Willoughby have a father to guide them! Aren’t you taking your hatred of men just a little too far?’
   ‘Deluded,’ replied Havisham, then added after a short pause: ‘Well then, Your Majesty, since we are in a questioning vein, just what is it, exactly, that you rule over?’
   The Red Queen turned scarlet—which was tricky as she was quite red to begin with—and pulled a small duelling pistol from her pocket. Havisham was quick and also drew her weapon, and there they stood, quivering with rage, guns pointing at each other. Fortunately the sound of a bell tingling caught their attention and they both lowered their weapons.
   ‘The Bellman!’ hissed Miss Havisham as she took my arm and moved towards where a man dressed as a town crier stood on a low dais. ‘Show time!’
   The small group of people gathered around the crier, the Red Queen and Miss Havisham side by side, their argument seemingly forgotten.
   The Bellman put down his bell and consulted a list of notes.
   ‘Is everyone here? Where’s the cat?’
   ‘I’m over here,’ purred the cat, sitting precariously atop one of the gold-framed mirrors.
   ‘Good. Okay, anyone missing?’
   ‘Shelley’s gone boating,’ said a voice at the back. ‘He’ll be back in an hour if the weather holds.’
   ‘Okay,’ continued the Bellman. ‘Jurisfiction meeting number 40,311 is now in session.’
   He tingled his bell again, coughed and consulted a clipboard.
   ‘Item one is bad news, I’m afraid.’
   There was a respectful hush. He paused for a moment and picked his words carefully.
   ‘I think we will all have to come to the conclusion that David and Catnona aren’t coming back. It’s been eighteen sessions now and we have to assume that they’ve been… boojummed.’
   There was a reflective pause.
   ‘We remember David and Catnona Balfour as friends, colleagues, worthy members of our calling, protagonists in Kidnapped and Catnona, and for all the booksploring they did—especially finding a way into Barchester, for which we will always be grateful. I ask for a minute’s silence. To the Balfours!’
   ‘The Balfours!’ we all repeated. Then, heads bowed, we stood in silence. After a minute ticked by, the Bellman spoke again.
   ‘Now, I don’t want to sound disrespectful but what we learn from this is that you must always sign the outings book so we know where you are—particularly if you are exploring new routes. Don’t forget the ISBN numbers either—they weren’t introduced just for cataloguing, now, were they? Mr Bradshaw’s maps might have a traditionalist’s charm about them—’
   ‘Who’s Bradshaw?’ I asked.
   ‘Commander Bradshaw,’ explained Havisham, ‘retired now but a wonderful character—did most of the booksploring in the early days.’
   ‘—but they are old and full of errors,’ continued the Bellman. ‘New technology is here to be used, guys. Anyone who wants to attend a training course on how ISBN numbers relate to trans-book travel, see the cat for details.’
   The Bellman looked around the room as if to reinforce the order, then unfolded a sheet of paper and adjusted his glasses.
   ‘Right. Item two. New recruit Thursday Next. Where are you?’
   The assembled Prose Resource Operatives looked around the room before I waved a hand to get their attention.
   ‘There you are. Thursday is apprenticed to Miss Havisham; I’m sure you’ll all join me in welcoming her to our little band.’
   ‘Didn’t like the way Jane Eyre turned out?’ said a voice from the back. There was a hush and everyone watched as a middle-aged man stood up and walked up to the Bellman’s dais
   ‘Who’s that?’ I whispered.
   ‘Harris Tweed,’ replied Havisham. ‘Dangerous and arrogant but quite brilliant—for a man.’
   ‘Who approved her application?’
   ‘She didn’t apply, Harris—her appointment was a Quad Erat Demonstrandum. Her work within Jane Eyre ridding the book of the loathsome Hades is a good enough testimonial for me.’
   ‘But she altered the book!’ cried Tweed angrily. ‘Who’s to say she wouldn’t do the same again?’
   ‘I did what I did for the best,’ I said in a loud voice, something that startled Harris slightly—I had a feeling that no one really stood up to him.
   ‘If it wasn’t for Thursday we wouldn’t have a book,’ said the Bellman. ‘A full book with a different ending is better than half a book without.’
   ‘That’s not what the rules say, Bellman.’
   Miss Havisham spoke up.
   ‘Truly competent literary detectives are as rare as truthful men, Mr Tweed—you can see her potential as clearly as I can. Frightened of someone stealing your thunder, perhaps?’
   ‘It’s not that at all,’ protested Tweed, ‘but what if she were here for another reason altogether?’
   ‘I shall vouch for her!’ said Miss Havisham in a thunderous tone. ‘I call for a show of hands. If there is a majority amongst you who think my judgment poor, then put your hands up now and I will banish her back to where she belongs!’
   She said it with such a show of fierce temper that I thought no one would raise their hands; in the event, only one did—Tweed himself, who, after reading the situation, judged that good grace was the best way in which to retire. He gave a wan half-smile, bowed and said:
   ‘I withdraw all objections.’
   ‘Good,’ said the Bellman as Tweed returned to his desk. ‘As I was saying—we welcome Miss Next to Jurisfiction and we don’t want any of those silly practical jokes we usually play on new recruits, okay?’
   He looked sternly around the room before returning to his list.
   ‘Item three: there is an illegal PageRunner from Shakespeare so this is a priority red. Perp’s name is Feste; worked as a jester in Twelfth Night. Took flight after a debauched night with Sir Toby. Who wants to go after him?’
   A hand went up in the crowd.
   ‘Fabien? Thanks. You may have to stand in for him for a while; take Falstaff with you but please, Sir John, stay out of sight. You’ve been allowed to stay in Merry Wives but don’t push your luck.’
   Falstaff got up, bowed clumsily, burped, and sat down again.
   ‘Item four. Interloper in Sherlock Holmes by the name of Mycroft—turns up quite unexpectedly in The Greek Interpreter and claims to be his brother. Anyone know anything about this?’
   I shrank lower, hoping that no one would have enough knowledge of my world to know we were related. Sly old fox! So he had rebuilt the Prose Portal. I covered my mouth to hide a smile.

   ‘No?’ went on the Bellman. ‘Well, Sherlock seems to think he is his brother and so far there is no harm done—but I think this would be a good opportunity to open up a way into the Sherlock Holmes series. Suggestions, anyone?’
   ‘How about through The Murders in the Rue Morgue?’ suggested Tweed to the accompaniment of laughter and catcalls from around the room.
   ‘Order! Sensible suggestions, please. Poe is out of bounds and will remain so. It’s possible The Murders in the Rue Morgue might open an avenue to all detective stories that came after it, but I won’t sanction the risk Now—any other suggestions?’
   ‘The Lost World.’
   There were a few giggles but they soon stopped; this time Tweed was serious.
   ‘Conan Doyle’s other works might afford a link to the Sherlock Holmes series,’ he added gravely. ‘I know we can get into The Lost World; I just need to find a way to move beyond that.’
   There was an uncomfortable moment as the Jurisfiction agents muttered to one another.
   ‘What’s the problem?’ I whispered.
   ‘Adventure stories always bring the highest risks to anyone establishing a new route,’ replied Miss Havisham. ‘The worst you might expect from a romantic novel or domestic pot-boiler is a slapped face or a nasty burn from the Aga. Finding a way into King Solomon’s Mines cost two agents’ lives.’
   The Bellman spoke again.
   ‘The last booksplorer who went into The Lost World was shot by Lord Roxton.’
   ‘Gomez was an amateur,’ retorted Tweed. ‘I can take care of myself.’
   The Bellman thought about this for a moment, weighed up the pros and cons and then sighed.
   ‘Okay, you’re on. But I want reports every ten pages, understand? Okay. Item five—’
   There was a noise from two younger members of the service, who were laughing about something.
   ‘Hey, listen up, guys. I’m not just talking for my health.’
   They were quiet.
   ‘Okay. Item five. Non-standard spelling. There have been some odd spellings reported in nineteenth—and twentieth-century texts, so keep your eyes open. It’s probably just texters having a bit of fun, but it just might be the mispeling vyrus coming back to life.’
   There was a groan from the assembled agents.
   ‘Okay, okay, keep your hair on—I only said “might”. Samuel Johnson’s dictionary cured it after the 1744 outbreak and Lavinia-Webster and the OED keep it all in check, but we have to be careful of any new strains. I know this is boring but I want every misspelling you come across reported and given to the cat. He’ll pass it on to Agent Libris at Text Grand Central.’
   He paused for effect and looked at us sternly.
   ‘We can’t let this get out of hand, people. Okay. Item six. There are thirty-one pilgrims in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales but only twenty-four stories. Mrs Cavendish, weren’t you keeping an eye on this?’
   ‘We’ve been watching Canterbury Tales all week,’ said a woman dressed in the most fabulously outrageous clothes, ‘and every time we look away another story gets boojummed. Someone’s getting in there and erasing the story from within.’
   ‘Deane? Any idea who’s behind all this?’
   Daphne Farquitt’s romantic lead stood up and consulted a list.
   ‘I think I can see a pattern beginning to emerge,’ he said. ‘ “The Merchant’s Wife” was the first to go, followed by “The Milliner’s Tale”, “The Pedlar’s Cock”, “The Cuckold’s Revenge”, “The Maiden’s Wonderful Arse” and, most recendy, “The Contest of Farts”. “The Cook’s Tale” is already half gone—it looks as though whoever is doing this has a problem with the healthy vulgarity of Chaucerian texts.’
   ‘In that case,’ said the Bellman with a grave expression, ‘it looks like we have an active cell of Bowdlerisers at work again. “The Miller’s Tale” will be the next to go—I want twenty-four-hour surveillance and we should get someone on the inside. Volunteers?’
   ‘I’ll go,’ said Deane. ‘I’ll take the place of the host—he won’t mind.’
   ‘Good. Keep me informed of your progress.’
   ‘I say!’ said Akrid Snell, putting up his hand.
   ‘What is it, Snell?’
   ‘If you’re going to be the host, Deane, can you get Chaucer to cool it a bit on the Sir Topaz story? He’s issued a writ for libel, and not to put too fine a point on it, I think we could lose our trousers over this one.’
   Deane nodded and the Bellman returned to his notes.
   ‘Item seven. Now this I regard as kind of serious, guys.’
   He held up an old copy of the Bible.
   ‘In this 1631 printing of the Bible, the seventh commandment reads: “Thou shalt commit adultery.” ‘
   There was a mixture of shock and stifled giggles from the small gathering.
   ‘I don’t know who did this but it’s just not funny. Fooling around with internal Text Operating Systems might have a sort of mischievous appeal to it, but it’s not big and it’s not clever. The occasional bout of high spirits I might overlook but this isn’t an isolated incident. I’ve also got a 1716 Bible here that urges the faithful to “sin on more”, and a Cambridge printing from 1653 which tells us that “The unrighteous shall inherit the Kingdom of God”. Now listen, I don’t want to be accused of having no sense of humour, but this is something that I will not tolerate. If I find out the joker who has been doing this, it’ll be a month’s enforced holiday inside Ant & Bee.’
   ‘Marlowe!’ said Tweed, making it sound like a cough.
   ‘What was that?’
   ‘Nothing. Bad cough—sorry.’
   The Bellman stared at Tweed for a moment, laid down the offending Bible and looked at his watch.
   ‘Okay, that’s it for now. I’ll be doing individual briefings in a few minutes. We thank Mrs Dashwood for her hospitality and Perkins—it’s your turn to feed the Morlock.’
   There was a groan from Perkins. The group started to wander off and talk to one another. The Bellman had to raise his voice to be heard.
   ‘We go off shift in eight bells, and listen up!’
   The assembled Jurisfiction staff stopped for a moment.
   ‘Let’s be careful out there.’
   The Bellman paused, tingled his bell and everyone returned to their tasks. I caught Tweed’s eye. He smiled, made a pistol out of his hand and pointed it at me. I did the same back and he laughed.
   ‘King Pellinore,’ said the Bellman to a dishevelled, white-haired, whiskery gentleman in half-armour, ‘there has been a sighting of the Questing Beast in the back-story of Middlemarch.’
   King Pellinore’s eyes opened wide; he muttered something that sounded like. ‘What, what, hey, hey?’, drew himself up to his full height, picked a helmet from a nearby table and clanked from the room. The Bellman ticked his list, consulted the next entry and turned to us.
   ‘Next and Havisham,’ he said. ‘Something easy to begin with. Bloophole needs closing. It’s in Great Expectations, Miss Havisham, so you can go straight home afterwards.’
   ‘What do we do?’
   ‘Page two,’ explained the Bellman, consulting his clipboard. ‘Abel Magwitch escapes—swims, one assumes—from a prison hulk with a “great iron” on his leg. He’d sink like a stone. No Magwitch, no escape, no career in Australia, no cash to give to Pip, no “expectations”, no story. He’s got to have the shackles still on him when he reaches the shore so Pip can fetch a file to release him, so you’re going to have to footle with the back-story. Any questions?’
   ‘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 privileges!’ 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.
   ‘Oi,’ hissed Magwitch between clenched teeth, not moving a muscle, ‘piss off.’
   ‘I’m sorry?’
   ‘Piss off!’ repeated Magwitch, this time more angrily.
   I was just pondering all this when Havisham caught up with me, grabbed my hand and jumped to where we were meant to be.
   ‘What was that?’ I asked.
   ‘The frontispiece. You’re not a natural at this, are you?’
   ‘I’m afraid not.’
   ‘Never mind,’ said Miss Havisham in a kindlier tone, ‘we’ll make a Prose Resource Operative out of you yet.’
   We walked down a jetty to where Havisham’s boat was moored. But it wasn’t any old boat. It was a polished-wood-and-gleaming-chrome Riva. I stepped aboard the motor launch and stowed the gear.
   ‘Cast off!’ yelled Havisham, who seemed to take on a new lease of life when confronted by anything with a powerful engine. I did as I was told. Miss Havisham started the twin Chevrolet petrol engines and to a throaty growl from the exhausts we made our way into the darkness of the Thames. I pulled two cloaks from the bag, donned one and took the other to Miss Havisham, who was standing at the helm, the wind blowing through her grey hair and tugging at her tattered veil.
   ‘Isn’t this a bit anachronistic?’ I asked.
   ‘Officially yes,’ replied Havisham, weaving to avoid a small jollyboat, ‘but we’re actually in the back-story minus one day, so I could have brought in a squadron of hurricanes and the entire Ringling Brothers circus and no one would be any the wiser. If we had to do this anytime during the book then we’d be stuck with whatever was available—which can be a nuisance.’
   We were moving upriver against a quickening tide. It was gone midnight, and I was glad of the cloak. Billows of fog blew in from the sea and gathered in great banks that caused Miss Havisham to slow down, within twenty minutes the fog had closed in and we were alone in the cold and clammy darkness. Miss Havisham shut down the engines, doused the navigation lights and we gently drifted in with the tide.
   ‘Sandwich and soup?’ she asked, peering in the picnic basket.
   ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
   ‘Do you want my Wagon Wheel?’
   ‘I was about to offer you mine.’
   We heard the prison ships before we saw them—the sound of men coughing, cursing and the occasional shout of fear. Miss Havisham started the engines and idled slowly in the direction of the sounds. Then the mist parted and we could see the prison hulk appear in front of us as a large black shape that rose from the water, the only light visible the oil lamps that flickered through the gunports. The old man-of-war was secured fore and aft by heavily rusted anchor chains against which flotsam had collected in a tangle. After checking the name of the ship, Miss Havisham slowed down and stopped the engines. We drifted down the flanks of the prison hulk, and I used the boathook to fend us off. The gunports were above us and out of reach, but as we moved silently down the ship we came across a home-made rope draped from a window on the upper gun deck. I quickly fastened the boat to a projecting ring and the motor launch swung around and settled facing the current.
   ‘Now what?’ I hissed.
   Miss Havisham pointed to the life preserver and I quickly tied it on to the end of the home-made rope.
   ‘That’s it?’ I asked.