'Thursday N?'
'Yes, sir?'
'You're late.'
And he shut the door.
'Don't worry,' said Miss Havisham kindly, 'he always says that. It's to make you ill at ease.'
'It works. Aren't you coming in with me?'
She shook her head and placed her hand on mine.
'Have you read The Trial?'
I nodded.
'Then you will know what to expect. Good luck, my dear.'
I thanked her, grasped the door handle and, with heavily beating heart, entered.
18
The trial of Fräulein N
* * *
'The Trial, Franz Kafka's masterpiece of enigmatic bureaucratic paranoia, was unpublished in the writer's lifetime. Indeed, Kafka lived out his short life in relative obscurity as an insurance clerk and bequeathed his manuscripts to his best friend on the understanding that they would be destroyed. How many other great writers, one wonders, penned masterworks which actually were destroyed upon their death? For the answer, you will have to look in among the sub-basements of the Great Library, twenty-six floors of unpublished manuscripts. Amongst a lot of self-indulgent rubbish and valiant yet failed attempts at prose you will find works of pure genius. For the greatest non-work of non-non-fiction, go to Sub-basement 13, Category MCML, Shelf 2919/812, where a rare and wonderful treat awaits you – Bunyan's Boot-scraper by John McSquurd. But be warned. No trip to the Well of Lost Plots should be undertaken alone…'
UA OF W CAT – The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library
The courtroom was packed full of men all dressed in black, chattering and gesticulating constantly. There was a gallery running around just below the ceiling where more people stood, also talking and laughing, and the room was hot and airless to the point of suffocation. There was a narrow path between the men, and I slowly advanced, the crowd merging behind me and almost propelling me forward. As I walked the spectators chattered about the weather, the previous case, what I was wearing and the finer points of my case – of which, it seemed, they knew nothing. At the other end of the hall was a low dais upon which was seated, just behind a low table, the examining magistrate. Behind him were court officials and clerks talking with the crowd and each other. To one side of the dais was the lugubrious man who had knocked on my door and tricked me into confessing back in Swindon. He was holding an impressive array of official-looking papers. This, I assumed, was Matthew Hopkins, the prosecution lawyer. Snell joined me and whispered in my ear:
'This is only a formal hearing to see if there is a case to answer. With a bit of luck we can get your case postponed to a more friendly court. Ignore the onlookers – they are simply here as a narrative device to heighten paranoia and have no bearing on your case. We will deny all charges.'
'Herr Magistrate,' said Snell, as we took the last few paces to the dais, 'my name is Akrid S defending Thursday N, in Jurisfiction v the Law, case number 142857.'
The magistrate looked at me, took out his watch and said:
'You should have been here an hour and five minutes ago.'
There was an excited murmur from the crowd. Snell opened his mouth to say something but it was I who answered.
'I know,' I said, 'I am to blame. I beg the court's pardon.'
At first, the magistrate didn't hear me and began to repeat himself for the benefit of the crowd:
'You should have been here an hour and … what did you say?'
'I said I was sorry and begged your pardon, sir,' I repeated.
'Oh,' said the examining magistrate as a hush fell upon the room. 'In that case, would you like to go away and come back in, say, an hour and five minutes' time, when you will be late through no fault of your own?'
The crowd applauded at this, although I couldn't see why.
'At Your Honour's pleasure,' I replied. 'If it is the court's ruling that I do so, then I will comply.'
'Very good,' whispered Snell.
'Oh!' said the magistrate again. He briefly conferred with his clerks behind him, seemed rattled for a moment, stared at me again and said:
'It is the court's decision that you be one hour and five minutes late!'
'I am already one hour and five minutes late!' I announced to scattered applause from the room.
'Then,' said the magistrate simply, 'you have complied with the court's ruling and we may proceed.'
'Objection!' said Hopkins.
'Overruled,' replied the magistrate as he picked up a tatty notebook that lay on the table in front of him. He opened it, read something and passed the book to one of his clerks.
'Your name is Thursday N. You are a house-painter?'
'No, she—' said Snell.
'Yes,' I interrupted. 'I have been a house-painter, Your Honour.'
There was a stunned silence from the crowd, punctuated by someone at the back who yelled: 'Bravo!' before another spectator thumped him. The examining magistrate peered at me more closely.
'Is this relevant?' demanded Hopkins, addressing the bench.
'Silence!' yelled the magistrate, continuing slowly and with very real gravity: 'You mean to tell me that you have, at one time, been a house-painter?'
'Indeed, Your Honour. After I left school and before college I painted houses for two months. I think it might be safe to say that I was indeed – although not permanently – a house-painter.'
There was another burst of applause and excited murmuring.
'Herr S?' said the magistrate. 'Is this true?'
'We have several witnesses to attest to it, Your Honour,' answered Snell, getting into the swing of the strange proceedings.
The room fell silent again.
'Herr H,' said the magistrate, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his brow carefully and addressing Hopkins directly, 'I thought you told me the defendant was not a house-painter?'
Hopkins looked flustered.
'I didn't say she wasn't a house-painter, Your Honour, I merely said she was an operative for SpecOps 27.'
'To the exclusion of all other professions?' asked the magistrate.
'Well, no,' stammered Hopkins, now thoroughly confused.
'Yet you did not state she was not a house-painter in your affidavit, did you?'
'No, sir.'
'Well then!' said the magistrate, leaning back in his chair as another peal of laughter and spontaneous applause broke out for no reason. 'If you bring a case to my court, Herr H, I expect it to be brought with all the details intact. First she apologises for being late, then she readily agrees to having painted houses. Court procedure will not be compromised – your prosecution is badly flawed.'
Hopkins bit his lip and went a dark shade of crimson.
'I beg the court's pardon, Your Honour,' he replied through gritted teeth, 'but my prosecution is sound – may we proceed with the charge?'
'Bravo!' said the man at the back again.
The magistrate thought for a moment and handed me his dirty notebook and a fountain pen.
'We will prove the veracity of prosecution counsel by a simple test,' he announced. 'Fräulein N, would you please write the most popular colour that houses were painted when you were' – and here he turned to Hopkins and spat the words out – 'a house-painter!'
The room erupted into cheers and shouts as I wrote the answer in the back of the exercise book and returned it.
'Silence!' announced the magistrate. 'Herr H?'
'What?' he replied sulkily.
'Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court the colour that Fräulein N has written in my book?'
'Your Honour,' began Hopkins in an exasperated tone, 'what has this to do with the case in hand? I arrived here in good faith to arraign Fräulein N on a charge of a Class II Fiction Infraction and instead I find myself embroiled in some lunatic rubbish about house-painters. I do not believe this court represents justice—'
'You do not understand,' said the magistrate, rising to his feet and raising his short arms to illustrate the point
, 'the manner in which this court works. It is the responsibility of the prosecution counsel not only to bring a clear and concise case before the bench, but also to fully verse himself about the procedures that he must undertake to achieve that goal.'
The magistrate sat down amidst applause.
'Now,' he continued in a quieter voice, 'either you tell me what Fräulein N has written in this book or I will be forced to arrest you for wasting the court's time.'
Two guards had pushed their way through the throng and now stood behind Hopkins, ready to seize him. The magistrate waved the book and fixed the lawyer with a steely gaze.
'Well?' he enquired. 'What was the most popular colour?'
'Blue,' said Hopkins in a miserable voice.
'What's that you say?'
'Blue,' repeated Hopkins in a louder voice.
'Blue, he said!' bellowed the magistrate. The crowd was silent and pushed and shoved to get closer to the action. Slowly and with high drama the magistrate opened the book to reveal the word green written across the page. The crowd burst into an excited cry, several cheers went up and hats rained down upon our heads.
'Not blue, green,' said the magistrate, shaking his head sadly and signalling to the guards to take hold of Hopkins. 'You have brought shame upon your profession, Herr H. You are under arrest!'
'On what charge?' replied Hopkins arrogantly.
'I am not authorised to tell you,' said the magistrate triumphantly. 'Proceedings have been started and you will be informed in due course.'
'But this is preposterous!' shouted Hopkins as he was dragged away.
'No,' replied the magistrate, 'this is Kafka.'
When Hopkins had gone and the crowd had stopped chattering, the magistrate turned back to me and said:
'You are Thursday N, aged thirty-six, one hour and five minutes late and occupation house-painter?'
'Yes.'
'You are brought before this court on a charge of … what is the charge?'
There was silence.
'Where,' asked the magistrate, 'is the prosecution counsel?'
One of his clerks whispered in his ear as the crowd spontaneously burst into laughter.
'Indeed,' said the magistrate grimly. 'Most remiss of him. I am afraid, in the absence of prosecuting counsel, this court has no alternative but to grant a postponement.'
And so saying he pulled a large rubber stamp from his pocket and brought it down with a crash on some papers that Snell, quick as a flash, managed to place beneath it.
'Thank you, Your Honour,' I managed to say before Snell grasped me by the arm, whispered in my ear: 'Let's get the hell out of here!' and steered me ahead of him past the throng of dark suits to the door.
'Bravo!' yelled a man from the gallery. 'Bravo! … And bravo again!'
We walked out to find Miss Havisham deep in conversation with Esther about the perfidious nature of men in general and Esther's husband in particular. They were not the only ones in the room. A bronzed Greek was sitting sullenly next to a Cyclops with a bloodied bandage round his head. The lawyers who were accompanying them were discussing the case quietly in the corner.
'How did it go?' asked Havisham.
'Postponement,' said Snell, mopping his brow and shaking me by the hand. 'Well done, Thursday. Caught me unawares with your "house-painter" defence. Very good indeed!'
'But only a postponement?'
'Oh, yes. I've never known a single acquittal from this court. But next time we'll be up before a proper judge – one of my choosing!'
'And what will become of Hopkins?'
'He,' laughed Snell, 'will have to get a very good lawyer!'
'Good!' said Havisham, getting to her feet. 'It's time we were at the sales. Come along!'
As we made for the door, the magistrate called into the kitchen parlour:
'Odysseus? Charge of grievous bodily harm against Polyphemus the Cyclops?'
'He devoured my comrades!' growled Odysseus angrily.
'That's tomorrow's case. We will not hear about that today. You're next up – and you're late.'
And the examining magistrate shut the door again.
19
Bargain books
* * *
'Jurisfiction was the fastest learning curve I had ever experienced. I think they were all expecting me to arrive a lot earlier than I did. Miss Havisham tested my book-jumping prowess soon after I arrived and I was marked up a dismal 38 out of 100. Mrs Nakajima was 93 and Havisham a 99. I would always need a book to read from to make a jump, no matter how well I had memorised the text. It had its disadvantages but it wasn't all bad news. At least I could read a book aloud without vanishing off inside it …'
THURSDAY NEXT – The Jurisfiction Chronicles
Outside the room Snell tipped his hat and vanished to represent a client currently languishing in debtors' prison. The day was overcast yet mild. I leaned on the balcony and looked down into the yard below at the children playing.
'So!' said Havisham. 'On with your training now that hurdle is over. The Swindon Booktastic closing-down sale begins at midday and I'm in mind for a bit of bargain hunting. Take me there.'
'How?'
'Use your head, girl!' replied Havisham sternly as she grabbed her walking stick and thrashed it through the air a few times. 'Come, come! If you can't jump me straight there, then take me to your apartment and we'll drive – but hurry. The Red Queen is ahead of us and there is a boxed set of novels that she is particularly keen to get her hands on – we must get there first!'
'I'm sorry,' I stammered, 'I can't—'
'No such word as can't!' exploded Miss Havisham. 'Use the book, girl, use the book!'
Suddenly, I understood. I took the leather-bound Jurisfiction book from my pocket and opened it. The first page, the one I had read already, was about the library. On the second page there was a passage from Austen's Sense and Sensibility and on the third a detailed description of my apartment back at Swindon – it was good, too, right down to the water stains on the kitchen ceiling and the magazines stuffed under the sofa. The rest of the pages were covered with closely typed rules and regulations, hints and tips, advice and places to avoid. There were illustrations, too, and maps quite unlike any I had seen before. There were, in fact, far more pages in the book than could possibly be fitted within the covers, but that wasn't the oddest thing. The last ten or so pages featured several hollowed-out recesses which contained devices that were far too wide to have fitted in the book. One of the pages contained a device similar to a flare gun which had 'Mk IV TextMarker' written on its side. Another page had a glass panel covering a handle like a fire alarm. A note painted on the glass read: 'IN UNPRECEDENTED EMERGENCY,* BREAK GLASS'. The asterisk, I noted somewhat chillingly, related to the footnote: '*Please note: personal destruction does NOT count as an unprecedented emergency.' The last few pages were blank – for notes of my own, I assumed.
'Well?' said Havisham impatiently. 'Are we going?'
I flicked to the page that held the short description of my apartment in Swindon. I started to read and felt Havisham's bony hand hang on to my elbow as the Prague rooftops and ageing tenement buildings faded out and my own apartment hove into view.
'Ah!' said Havisham, looking around at the small kitchen with a contemptuous air. 'And this is what you call home?'
'At the moment. My husband—'
'The one whom you're not sure is alive or dead or married to you or not?'
'Yes,' I said firmly, 'that one.'
She smiled at this and added with a baleful stare:
'You wouldn't have an ulterior motive for joining me in Expectations, would you?'
'No,' I lied.
'Didn't come to do something else?'
'Absolutely not.'
'You're lying about something,' she announced slowly, 'but about what I'm not so sure. Children are such consummate liars. Have your servants recently left you?'
She was staring at the dirty dishes.
'Yes,' I l
ied again, not so keen on her disparagement any more. 'Domestic service is a tricky issue in 1985.'
'It's no bed of roses in the nineteenth century either,' Miss Havisham replied, leaning on the kitchen table to steady herself. 'I find a good servant but they never stay – it's the lure of them, you know, the liars, the evil ones.'
'Evil ones?'
'Men!' hissed Havisham contemptuously. 'The lying sex. Mark my words, child, for no good will ever come of you if you succumb to their charms – and they have the charms of a snake, believe me!'
'I'll try to keep on my toes,' I told her.
'And your chastity firmly guarded,' she told me sternly.
'Goes without saying.'
'Good. Can I borrow that jacket?'
She was pointing at Miles Hawke's Swindon Mallets jacket. Without waiting for a reply she put it on and replaced her veil with a SpecOps cap. Satisfied, she asked:
'Is this the way out?'
'No, that's the broom cupboard. This is the way out over here.'
We opened the door to find my landlord with his fist raised ready to knock.
'Ah!' he said in a low growl. 'Next!'
'You said I had until Friday,' I told him.
'I'm turning off the water. The gas, too.'
'You can't do that!'
He leered. 'If you've got six hundred quid on you, perhaps I can be convinced not to.'
But his smirk changed to fear as the point of Miss Havisham's stick shot out and caught him in the throat. She pushed him heavily against the wall in the corridor. He choked and made to move the stick but Miss Havisham knew just how much pressure was needed – she pushed the stick harder and he stayed his hand.
'Listen to me!' she snapped. 'Touch Miss Next's gas and water and you'll have me to answer to. She'll pay you on time, you worthless wretch – you have Miss Havisham's word on that!'
Lost in a Good Book Page 17