Lost in a Good Book tn-2

by Jasper Fforde

  The noise had alerted the guards on the deck.

  ‘Who’s there?’ yelled one. ‘You had better be on the King’s business or by St George you’ll feel the lead from my musket!’

  ‘It’s Miss Havisham,’ replied Havisham in a vexed tone, ‘on Jurisfiction business, Sergeant Wade.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Havisham,’ replied the guard apologetically, ‘but we heard a gunshot!’

  ‘That was me,’ yelled Havisham. ‘You have grammasites on your ship!’

  ‘Really?’ replied the guard, leaning out and looking around. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘It’s gone now, you dozy idiot,’ said Havisham to herself, quickly adding. ‘Well, keep a good look out in future—if you see any more I want to know about them immediately!’

  Sergeant Wade assured her he would, bade us both goodnight then disappeared from view.

  ‘What on earth is a grammasite?’ I asked, looking nervously about in case the strange-looking creature should return.

  ‘A parasitic life form that lives inside books and feeds on grammar,’ explained Havisham. ‘I’m no expert, of course, but that one looked suspiciously like an adjectivore. Can you see the gunport it was feeding on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Describe it to me.’

  I looked at the gunport and frowned. I had expected it to be old or dark or wooden or rotten or wet, but it wasn’t. But then it wasn’t sterile or blank or empty either—it was simply a gunport, nothing more nor less.

  ‘The adjectivore feeds on the adjectives describing the noun,’ explained Havisham, ‘but it generally leaves the noun intact. We have verminators who deal with them, but there’s not enough grammasites in Dickens to cause any serious damage—yet.’

  ‘How do they move from one book to the next?’ I asked, wondering whether Mycroft’s bookworms weren’t some sort of grammasite-in-reverse.

  ‘They seep through the covers using a process called oozemosis. That’s why individual bookshelves are never more than six feet long in the Library—you’d be well advised to follow the same procedure at home. I’ve seen grammasites strip a library to nothing but indigestible nouns and page numbers—ever read Sterne’s Tristram Shandy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Grammasites.’

  ‘I have a lot to learn,’ I said softly.

  ‘Agreed,’ replied Havisham. ‘I’m trying to get the cat to write an updated travel book that includes a bestiary, but he has a lot to do in the Library—and holding a pen is tricky with paws. Come on, let’s get out of this fog and see what this motor launch can do.’

  As soon as we were clear of the prison ship, Havisham started the engines and slowly powered back the way we had come, once again keeping a careful eye on the compass, but even so nearly running aground six times.

  ‘How did you know Sergeant Wade?’

  ‘As the Jurisfiction representative in Great Expectations it is my business to know everybody. If there are any problems, then they must be brought to my attention.’

  ‘Do all books have a rep?’

  ‘All the ones that have been brought within the control of Jurisfiction.’

  The fog didn’t lift. We spent the rest of that cold night steering in amongst the moored boats at the side of the river. Only when dawn broke did we see enough to manage a sedately ten knots.

  We returned the boat to the jetty and Havisham insisted I jump us both back to her room at Satis House which I managed to accomplish at the first attempt, something that helped to recover some lost confidence. I lit some candles and saw her to bed before returning myself to the stores, and Wemmick. I had the second half of the docket signed, filled out a form for a missing life vest and was about to return home when a very scratched and bruised Harris Tweed appeared from nowhere and approached the counter where I was standing. His clothes were tattered and he had lost one boot and most of his kit. It looked like The Lost World hadn’t really agreed with him. He caught my eye and pointed a finger at me.

  ‘Don’t say a word. Not a single word!’

  Pickwick was still awake when I got in even though it was nearly six a.m. There were two messages on the answer machine—one from Cordelia, and another from a very annoyed Cordelia.

  27. Landen and Joffy Again

  ‘George Formby was born George Hoy Booth in Wigan in 1904. He followed his father into the music hall business, adopted the ukulele as his trademark and by the time the war broke out he was a star of variety, pantomime and film. During the first years of the war, he and his wife Beryl toured extensively for ENSA, entertaining the troops as well as making a series of highly successful movies. By 1942 he and Gracie Fields stood alone as the nation’s favourite entertainers. When invasion of England was inevitable, many influential dignitaries and celebrities were shipped out to Canada. George and Beryl elected to stay and fight—as George put it: “To the last bullet on the end of Wigan pier!” Moving underground with the English resistance and various stalwart regiments of the Local Defence Volunteers, Formby manned the outlawed “Wireless St George” and broadcast songs, jokes and messages to secret receivers across the country. Always in hiding, always moving, the Formbys used their numerous contacts in the North to smuggle Allied airmen to neutral Wales and form resistance cells that harried the Nazi invaders. Hitler’s order of 1944 to “have all ukuleles and banjos in England burnt” was a measure of how much he was considered a threat. George’s famous comment after peace was declared, “Ee, turned out nice again!”, became a national catch-phrase. In postwar republican England he was made non-executive President for life, a post he held until his assassination.’

  JOHN WILLIAMS. The Extraordinary Career of George Formby

  It was after two or three days of plain LiteraTec work and a dull weekend without Landen that I found myself lying awake and staring at the ceiling, listening to the clink-clink of milk bottles and the click-click of Pickwick’s feet on the linoleum as she meandered around the kitchen. Sleep patterns never came out quite right in re-engineered species; no one knew why. There had been no major coincidences over the past few days, although on the night of Joffy’s exhibition the two SpecOps 5 agents who had been assigned to watch Slaughter and Lamb died in their car as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. It seemed their car had a faulty exhaust. Lamb and Slaughter had been following me around very indiscreetly for the past two days. I just let them get on with it; they weren’t bothering me—or my unknown assailant. If they had, they’d as likely as not be dead.

  But there was more than just SO-5 to worry about. In three days the world would be reduced to a sticky mass of sugar and proteins—or so my father said. I had seen the pink and gooey world for myself, but then I had also seen myself shot at Cricklade Skyrail station, so the future wasn’t exactly immutable—thank goodness. There had been no advance on the forensic report; the pink slime matched to no known chemical compound. Coincidentally, the following Thursday was also the day of the general election, and Yorrick Kaine looked set to make some serious political gains thanks to his ‘generous’ sharing of Cardenio. Mind you, he was still taking no chances—the first public unveiling of the text was not until the day after the election. The thing was, if the pink gunge got a hold, Yorrick Kaine could have the shortest career as a prime minister ever. Indeed, next Thursday could be the last Thursday for all of us.

  I closed my eyes and thought of Landen. He was there as I best remembered him; seated in his study with his back to me, oblivious to everything, writing. The sunlight streamed in through the window and the familiar clacketty-clack of his old Underwood typewriter sounded like a fond melody to my ears. He stopped occasionally to look at what he had written, make a correction with the pencil clenched between his teeth, or just pause for pause’s sake. I leaned on the door frame for a while and smiled. He mumbled a line he had written, chuckled to himself and typed faster for a moment, hitting the carrriage return with a flourish. He typed quite animatedly in this fashion for about five minutes until he
stopped, took out the pencil and slowly turned round to face me.

  ‘Hey, Thursday.’

  ‘Hey, Landen. I didn’t want to disturb you; shall I—?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly, ‘this can wait. I’m just pleased to see you. How’s it going out there?’

  ‘Boring,’ I told him despondently. ‘After Jurisfiction, SpecOps works seems as dull as ditchwater. Flanker at SO-1 is still on my back, I can feel Goliath breathing down my neck, and this Lavoisier character is using me to get to Dad.’

  ‘Would sitting on my lap help?’

  So I did, and hugged him tightly.

  ‘How’s Junior?’

  ‘Junior is smaller than a broad bean but making himself known. The Lucozade keeps the nausea at bay most of the time—I must have drunk a swimming pool of it by now.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Is it mine?’ he asked.

  I held him tightly again but said nothing. He understood and patted my shoulder.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else. How are you getting along at Jurisfiction?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, blowing my nose loudly, ‘I’m not a natural at this book-jumping lark. I want you back, Land, but I’m only going to get one shot at The Raven and I need to get it right. I’ve not heard from Havisham for nearly three days—I don’t know when the next assignment will be.’

  Landen shook his head slowly.

  ‘Sweetness, I don’t want you to go into The Raven.’

  I looked up at him.

  ‘You heard. Leave Jack Schitt where he is. How many people would have died for him to make a packet out of that Plasma rifle scam? One thousand? Ten thousand? Listen, your memory may grow fuzzy, but I’ll still be here, the good times—’

  ‘But I don’t want just the good times, Land. I want all the times. The shitty ones, the arguments, that annoying habit you had of always trying to make the next filling station and running out of petrol. Picking your nose, farting in bed. But more than that, I want the times that haven’t happened yet—the future. Our future! I am getting Schitt out, Land—make no mistake about that’

  ‘Let’s talk about something else again,’ said Landen. ‘Listen—I’m a bit worried about someone trying to kill you with coincidences.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  He looked at me solemnly.

  ‘I don’t doubt it for one moment. But I’m only alive in your memories—and some mewling and puking ones of my mum’s, I suppose—and without you I’m nothing at all, ever. So if whoever is juggling with entropy gets lucky next time, you and I are both for the high jump—but at least you get a memorial and a SpecOps regulation headstone.’

  ‘I see your point, however muddled you might make it. Did you see how I used the last entropy lapse to find Mrs Nakyima? Clever, eh?’

  ‘Inspired. Now, can you think of any linking factor—except the intended victim—that connects the three attacks?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. I’ve thought it through a thousand times. Nothing.’

  Landen thought for a moment, tapped a finger on his temple and smiled.

  ‘Don’t be so sure. I’ve been having a little peek myself, and, well, I want to show you something.’

  And there we were, on the platform of the Skyrail station at South Cerney. But it wasn’t a moving memory, like the other ones I had enjoyed with Landen, it was frozen like a stilled video image—and like a stilled video image, it wasn’t very good; all blurry and a bit jumpy.

  ‘Okay, what now?’ I asked as we walked along the platform.

  ‘Have a look at everyone. See if there is anyone you recognise.’

  I stepped on to the shuttle and walked round the players in the fiasco, who were frozen like statues. The faces that were most distinct were the Neanderthal driver-operator, the well-heeled woman, the woman with Pixie Frou-Frou and the woman with the crossword. The rest were vague shapes, generic female human forms and little else—no mnemonic tags to make them unique. I pointed them out.

  ‘Good,’ said Landen, ‘but what about her?’

  And there she was, the young woman sitting on the bench in the station, doing her face in a make-up mirror. We walked closer and I looked intently at the fuzzy, nondescript face that loomed murkily out of my memory.

  ‘I only glimpsed her for a moment, Land. Slightly built, mid-twenties, red shoes. So what?’

  ‘She was here when you arrived, she’s on the southbound platform, all trains go to all stops—yet she didn’t take the Skyrail. Suspicious?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No,’ said Landen, slightly crestfallen. ‘Not exactly a smoking gun, is it? Unless’—he smiled—’unless you look at this.’

  And in a trice we were at the Uffington White Horse on the day of the picnic. I looked up nervously. The large Hispano-Suiza automobile was hanging motionless in the air not fifty feet up.

  ‘Anything spring to mind?’ asked Landen.

  I looked around carefully. It was another bizarre frozen vignette. Everyone and everything was there—Major Fairwelle, Sue Long, my old croquet captain, the mammoths, the gingham tablecloth—even the bootleg cheese. I looked at Landen.

  ‘Nothing, Land.’

  ‘Are you sure? Look again.’

  I sighed and scanned their faces. Sue Long, an old schoolfriend whose boyfriend set his own trousers on fire for a bet, Sarah Nara, who lost her ear at Bilohirsk on a training accident and ended up marrying General Pearson, croquet pro Alf Widdershaine, who taught me how to ‘peg out’ all the way from the forty-yard line. Even the previously unknown Bonnie Voige was there, and—

  ‘Who’s this’’ I asked, pointing at a shimmering memory in front of me.

  ‘It’s the woman who called herself Violet De’ath,’ answered Landen. ‘Does she seem familiar?’

  I looked at her blank features. I hadn’t given her a second thought at the time but something about her was familiar.

  ‘Sort of,’ I responded. ‘Have I seen her somewhere before?’

  ‘You tell me, Thursday.’ Landen shrugged. ‘It’s your memory—but if you want a clue, look at her shoes.’

  And there they were. Bright red shoes that just might have been the same as those on the girl at the Skyrail platform.

  ‘There’s more than one pair of red shoes in Wessex, Land.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he observed. ‘I did say it was a long shot.’

  I had an idea, and before Landen could say another word we were in the square at Osaka with all the Nextian-logoed Japanese, the fortune-teller frozen in mid-beckon, the crowd around us an untidy splash of visual noise which is the way crowds appear to the mind’s eye, the logos I remembered jutting out in sharp contrast to the unremembered faces. I peered through the crowd as I anxiously searched for anything that might resemble a young European woman.

  ‘See anything?’ asked Landen, hands on hips and surveying the strange scene.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Wait a minute. Let’s come in a bit earlier.’

  I took myself back a minute and there she was, getting up from the fortune-teller’s chair the moment I first saw him. I walked closer and looked at the vague shape. I squinted at her feet. There, in the haziest corner of my mind, was the memory I was looking for. The shoes were definitely red.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ asked Landen

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured, staring at the wraith-like figure in front of me. ‘But it doesn’t help; none of these memories is strong enough for a positive ID.’

  ‘Perhaps not on their own,’ observed Landen. ‘But since I’ve been in here I’ve figured out a few things about how your memory works. Try and superimpose the images.’

  I thought of the woman on the platform, placed her across the vague form in the market and then added the spectre who had called herself De’ath. The three images shimmered for a bit before they locked together. It wasn’t great. I needed more. I pulled from my memory the half-shredded pictur
e that Lamb and Slaughter had shown me. It fitted perfectly, and Landen and I stared at the result.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Landen. ‘Twenty-five?’

  ‘Possibly a little older,’ I muttered, looking closer at the amalgam of my attacker, trying to fix it in my memory. She had plain features, a small amount of make-up and blonde hair cut in an asymmetric bob. She didn’t look like a killer. I ran through all the information I had—which didn’t take long. The failed SpecOps 5 investigations allowed me a few clues: the recurring name of Hades, the initials ‘A.H.’, the fact that she did resolve on pictures. Clearly it wasn’t Acheron in disguise but perhaps—

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Hades.’

  ‘It can’t be. You killed him.’

  ‘I killed Acheron. He had a brother named Styx—why couldn’t he have a sister?’

  We exchanged nervous looks and stared at the mnemonograph in front of us. Some of her features did seem to resemble those of Acheron now I stared at her. For a start, she was tall. And the way her lips were thin, and the eyes—they had a sort of brooding darkness to them.

  ‘No wonder she’s pissed off with you,’ murmured Landen ‘You killed her brother.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Landen,’ I said. ‘You always know how to relax a girl.’

  ‘Sorry. So we know the “H” in “A.H.” is Hades—what about the “A”?’

  ‘The Acheron was a tributary of the river Styx,’ I said quietly, ‘as were the Phlegethon, Cocytus, Lethe—and… Aornis.’

  I’d never felt so depressed at having identified a suspect before. But something was niggling at me. There was something here that I couldn’t see, as if I were listening to a TV from another room, hearing dramatic music but having no idea what was going on.

  ‘Cheer up.’ Landen smiled, rubbing my shoulder. ‘She’s ballsed it up three times already—it might never happen!’

  ‘There’s something else, Landen.’

  ‘What?’