'Is it always this boring?' I asked, watching the Thriller delegate drone on.
'Always,' replied Havisham. 'We try to avoid any entanglements and let Text Grand Central take all the flak. Come on, you must sign the pledge.'
We left the viewing gallery and padded down the corridor to a door that led into the smallest room I had ever seen. It seemed to be mostly filing cabinet and desk. An equally small man was eating biscuits — and most of them were falling down his front.
'Thursday Next to take the pledge,' announced Miss Havisham. 'I have the documents all signed and sealed by the Bellman.'
'Work, work, work,' said the small man, taking a swig of tea and looking up at me with small yet oddly intense eyes. 'I rarely get any peace — you're the second pledge this year.'
He sighed and wiped his mouth on his tie.
'Who seconds the application?'
'Commander Bradshaw.'
'And who vouches for Miss Next?'
'I do.'
'Good. Repeat the oath of the BookWorld.' Primed by Miss Havisham, I repeated:
'I swear by the Great Panjandrum that I shall uphold the rules of Jurisfiction, protect the BookWorld and defend every fictioneer, no matter how poorly written, against oppression. I shall not shirk from my duty, nor use my knowledge or position for personal gain. Secrets entrusted to me by the Council of Genres or Text Grand Central must remain secret within the service, and I will do all I can to maintain the power of storytelling within the minds and hearts of the readers.'
'That'll do,' said the small man, taking another bite of his biscuit. 'Sign here, here and — er — here. And you have to witness it, Miss Havisham.'
I signed where he indicated in the large ledger, noting as I did so that the last Jurisfiction agent to have signed was Beatrice. He snapped the book shut after Miss Havisham had witnessed my signature.
'Good. Here's your badge.'
He handed over a shiny Jurisfiction badge with my name and number engraved below the colourful logo. It could get me into any book I wanted without question — even Poe if I so chose, although it wasn't recommended.
'Now if you'll excuse me,' said the bureaucrat, looking at his watch, 'I'm very busy. These forms have to be processed in under a month.'
We returned to the elevator and Miss Havisham pressed the twenty-sixth sub-basement button. We were going back into the Well.
'Good,' she said. 'Now that's out of the way we can get on. Perkins and Mathias we can safely say were murdered; Snell might as well have been. We are still waiting for Godot and someone tried to kill you with an exploding hat. As an apprentice you have limited powers; as a full member of Jurisfiction you can do a lot more. You must be on your guard!'
'But why?'
'Because I don't want you dead and if you know what's good for you, neither do you.'
'No, I mean why is someone trying to kill me?'
'I wish I knew.'
'Let's suppose,' I said, 'that Deane isn't just missing — that he may have been murdered. Is there a link between Perkins, Deane, Mathias and myself?'
'None that I can think of,' said Miss Havisham after a great deal of thought, 'but if we consider that Mathias may have been killed because he was a witness, and that one of your Outlander friends may be trying to kill you, then that narrows the list to Perkins and Deane. And there is a link between those two.'
'Yes?'
'Harris Tweed, myself, Perkins and Deane were all given an UltraWord™ book to test.'
'I didn't know that.'
'No one did. I can only tell you now because you are a full agent — didn't you hear what was in the pledge?'
'I see,' I said slowly. 'What's UltraWord™ like?'
'As Libris states: "The ultimate reading experience". The first thing that hits you is the music and colour.'
'What about the new plots?'
'I didn't see that,' confessed Miss Havisham as the elevator doors opened. 'We were all given a copy of The Little Prince updated with the new operating system — but Pageglow™, WordBuddy™, PlotPotPlus™ and ReadZip™ are all quite dazzling in their simplicity.'
'That's good.'
'But something just doesn't seem right.'
'That's not so good.'
We walked along the corridor to where the Text Sea opened out in front of us, the roof of the corridor lifting higher and higher until it had no discernible end, just swirling patterns of punctuation forming into angry storm clouds. At the dockside scrawltrawlers rode gently at their moorings while the day's wordcatch was auctioned off at the dockside.
'Like what? A problem with the system?'
'I wish I knew,' said Miss Havisham, 'but try as I might I couldn't make the book do anything it shouldn't. In BOOK V7.2 you could force an uncommanded translation into Esperanto by subjecting the book to a high "G" manoeuvre. In BOOK V6.3 the verb "to eat" conflicted with any description of a pangolin and caused utter mayhem with the tenses. I've tried everything to get UltraWord™ to fail but it's steady as a rock.'
We walked beyond the harbour to where large pipes spewed jumbled letters back into the Text Sea amidst a strong smell of rubber.[22]
'That's where the words end up when you erase them in the Outland,' mentioned Miss Havisham as we strolled past. 'Anything the matter?'
'Junk footnoterphones again,' I muttered, trying to screen the rubbish out. 'A scam of some sort, I think. What makes you believe anything is the trouble with UltraWord™?'
'Perkins called me the night before he died. He said he had a surprising discovery but didn't want to talk over the footnoterphone.'
'Was it about UltraWord™?'
Havisham shrugged.
'To be truthful, I don't know. It's possible — but it could have been about Deane just as easily.'
The road petered out into a beach formed by shards of broken letters. This was where novels met their end. Beneath the leaden skies the books — here taking the appearance of seven-storey buildings — were cast high upon the shore, any plot devices and settings of any use torn out to be sold as salvage. The remaining hulks were then pulled to pieces by Generics working in teams with nothing more high tech than crowbars, cutting torches and chains, stripping the old novel back into words which were tipped into the sea by wheelbarrow gangs, the words dissolving back into letters, their meaning burning off into a slight bluish haze that collected at the foreshore.
We arrived at the copy of The Squire of High Potternews. It looked dark and sombre here on the shore of the Text Sea. If anyone tried to find their copy in the Outland they would have a great deal of trouble; when Text Grand Central withdraw a book, they really mean it.
The book was resting on its end and was slightly open. A large tape had been run round the outside that read: 'Jurisfiction, do not cross'.
'Looking for something?'
It was Harris Tweed and Uriah Hope; they jumped down from the book and looked at us curiously.
'Good evening, Harris,' said Miss Havisham. 'We were trying to find Deane.'
'Me too. Have a look around if you wish but I'm damned if I can find a single clue as to his whereabouts.'
'Has anyone tried to kill you recently?' I asked.
'Me?' replied Harris. 'No. Why, should they?'
I told him about the UltraWord™ connection.
'It's possible that there might be a link,' he mused, 'but I gave UltraWord™ the fullest test; it seemed to work extremely well no matter what I did! Do you have any idea what Perkins had discovered?'
'We don't know he found anything wrong at all,' said Havisham.
Harris thought for a moment.
'I think we should definitely keep this to ourselves,' he said at last, 'and take great care what we do. If Deane is about and had anything to do with Perkins' death, he might be after you or me next.'
Havisham agreed, told me to go and see Professor Plum to ascertain whether he could shed any more light on the failed Eject-O-Hat and vanished after telling me she had an urgent appoint
ment to keep. When she had gone, Harris said to me:
'Keep an eye on the old girl, won't you?'
I promised I would and made my way back towards the elevators, deep in thought.
25
Havisham: the final bow
'/ / / ../ / ../ / / / / ....../ / / / / .../ ./ ......./ / ../ ../ ./ / / .../ / / / / / ....../ / / ./ / / ./ / / / / / / / / / ........../ / / / / / / ....../ / / / / / / / ......./ / ../ / / / / / / ....../ / / / / .../ ./ ......./ / ../ ../ ./ / / .../ / / / / / ....../ / / ./ / / ./ / / / / / / / / / ........../ / / / / / / ....../ / / / / / / ........../ / / / / / / ....../ / / / / / / / ......./ / ../ / / / / / / ....../ / / / / .../ ./ ......./ / / / / / / / / ../ / / / / ........../ / / / / / / ....../ / / / / / / / ......./ / ../ / / / / / / ....../ / / ..../ / / / / / / ....../ / / / / / / / ......./ / ../ / / / / / / ....../ / / / / .../ ./ ......./ / ../ ../ ./ / / .../ / / / / / / ....../ / / ./ / / ./ / / / / / / / / / ........../ / / / / / / ....../
Macbeth Retold for Yeast, translated by ../ / / / ../ / / ..
'Ah!' said Plum as I walked into his office. 'Miss Next — good news and bad news.'
'Better give me the bad news first.'
Plum took off his spectacles and polished them.
'The Eject-O-Hat. I've pulled the records and traced the manufacturing process all the way back to the original milliner; it seems that over a hundred people have been involved in its manufacture, modification and overhaul schedules. Fifteen years is a long service life for an Eject-O-Hat. Add the people with the know-how and we've got a short list of about six hundred.'
'A broad net.'
'I'm afraid so.'
I went to the window and looked out. Two peacocks were strutting across the lawn.
'What was the good news?'
'You know Miss Scarlett at Records?'
'Yes?'
'We're getting married on Tuesday.'
' Congratulations.'
'Thank you. Was there anything else?'
'I don't think so,' I replied, walking to the door. 'Thanks for your help, Plum.'
'My pleasure!' he replied kindly. 'Tell Miss Havisham she should get a new Eject-O-Hat — this one is quite beyond repair.'
'It wasn't Havisham's,' I told him, 'it was mine.'
He raised his eyebrows.
'You're mistaken,' he said after a pause. 'Look.'
He pulled the battered Homburg from his desk and showed me Havisham's name etched on the sweatband with a number, manufacturing details and size.
'But,' I said slowly, 'I was wearing this hat in—'
The awful truth dawned. There must have been a mix-up with the hats. They hadn't been trying to kill me that day — they had been after Miss Havisham!
'Problems?' said Plum.
'Of the worst sort,' I muttered. 'Can I use your footnoterphone?'
I didn't wait for a reply; I picked up the brass horn and asked for Miss Havisham. She wasn't in the Well, nor Great Expectations. I replaced the speaking horn and jumped to the lobby of the Great Library where the general stores were situated; if anyone knew what Havisham was up to, it would be Wemmick.
Mr Wemmick wasn't busy; he was reading a newspaper with his feet on the counter.
'Miss Next!' he said happily, getting up to shake me warmly by the hand. 'What can I do for you?'
'Miss Havisham,' I blurted out, 'do you know where she is?'
W'emmick squirmed inwardly.
'I'm not sure she'd like me to tell—'
'Wemmick!' I cried. 'Someone tried to kill Miss Havisham and they may try again!'
He looked shocked and bit his lip.
'I don't know where she is,' he said slowly, 'but I know what she's doing.'
My heart sank.
'It's another land speed attempt, isn't it?'
He nodded miserably.
'Where?'
'I don't know. She said the Higham wasn't powerful enough. She signed out for the Bluebird, a twin-engined, 2,500-horsepower brute of a car — it almost didn't fit in the storeroom.'
'Do you have any idea where she's going to drive it?'
'None at all.'
'Damn!' I yelled, slamming my hand against the counter. 'Think, Thursday, think!'
I had an idea. I grasped the footnoterphone and asked to be put through to Mr Toad from Wind in the Willows. He wasn't in but Ratty was; and after I had explained who I was and what I wanted, he gave me the information I needed. Havisham and Mr Toad were racing on Pendine Sands, in the Socialist Republic of Wales.
I ran up the stairs and to the works of Dylan Thomas, picked up a slim volume of poetry and concentrated on my exit point in the Outland. To my delight it worked and I was catapulted out of fiction and into an untidy heap in a small bookshop in Laugharne, Thomas's old village in South Wales. Now a shrine for Welsh and non-Welsh visitors alike, the bookshop was one of eight in the village selling nothing but Welsh literature and Thomas memorabilia.
There was a scream from a startled book-buyer as I appeared and I stepped backwards in alarm only to fall over a pile of Welsh cookery books. I got up and ran from the shop as a car screeched to a halt in front of me. Pendine Sands with its ten miles of flat beach was down the coast from Laugharne and I would need transport to get me there.
I showed the driver my Jurisfiction badge, which looked official even if it meant nothing, and said, in my very best Welsh:
'Esgipysgod fi ond ble mae bws i Pendine?'
She got the message and drove me along the road towards Pendine. Before we arrived I could see Bluebird on the sands, together with Mr Toad's car and a small group of people. The tide was out and a broad expanse of inviting smooth sand greeted Miss Havisham; as I watched, my pulse racing, two plumes of black smoke erupted from the back of the record-breaker as the engines fired up. Even through the window I could hear the guttural cry of the engines.
'Dewch ymlaen!' I urged the driver, and we swerved on to the car park just near the statue of John Parry Thomas. I ran down on to the beach, waving my arms and yelling, but no one heard me above the roar of the engines, and even if they had, there was little reason for them to take any notice.
'Hi!' I shouted. 'Miss Havisham!'
I ran as fast as I could but only exhausted myself so that I ran more slowly with every passing step.
'Stop!' I yelled, getting weaker and breathless. 'For pity's sake—!'
But it was too late. With another deep growl the car moved off and started to gather speed across the sand. I stopped and dropped to my knees, trying to gulp deep lungfuls of air, my heart racing. The car hurtled away from me, the engine roar fading as Miss Havisham tore along the hard sand. I watched it go at medium speed to the far end of the beach, then turn in a large arc for the first of her two runs. The engine growled again, rising to a high scream as the car gathered speed, the driving wheels throwing a shower of sand and pebbles far behind it. I willed her to be safe and for nothing to happen, and indeed, nothing did until she was decelerating after the first run. I was breathing a sigh of relief when one of the front wheels broke loose and was dragged beneath the car, throwing it up into the air. The front edge of the bodywork dug into the sand and the car swerved violently sideways. I heard a cry of fear from the small crowd and a series of sickening thuds as the car rolled end over end down the beach, the engine screaming out of control as the wheels gripped nothing but air. It came to rest right way up not five hundred yards from me, and I ran towards it. I was three hundred yards away when the petrol tank ignited in a mushroom of fire that lifted the three-ton car from the sand. When I got there I found that by some miracle she had survived. Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn't — Miss Havisham was horribly burned.
'Water!' I cried. 'Water for her burns!'
The small crowd of onlookers were hopeless and could do nothing but stare at us in shock.
'Thursday?' she murmured although she couldn't see me. 'Please take me home.'
I'd never jumped dual, taking someone with me, but I did it now. I j
umped clean out of Pendine and into Great Expectations, right into Miss Havisham's room at Satis House, next to the rotting wedding party that never was, the darkened room, the clocks stopped at twenty to nine. It was the place where I had first seen her all those weeks ago, and it would be the place I saw her last. I laid her on the bed and tried to make her comfortable.
'Dear Thursday,' she said. 'They got to me, didn't they?'
'Who, Miss Havisham?'
'I don't know.'
She started coughing and for a moment I didn't think she would stop.
'You are close to me, my dear — they will come for you next!'
'But why, Miss Havisham, why?'
She grabbed my wrist and stared at me with her piercing grey eyes which had not wavered in their resolve for even one moment.
'Here,' she said, handing me her Ultra Word™ copy of The Little Prince, 'you try!'
'But—'
'I will not survive this,' she whispered, 'but I have enough strength to make a good exit. Hand me the brandy and take me to my last appearance in the book; I will make my peace with Pip and Estella. It is for the best, I think.'
News of Miss Havisham's accident got around Great Expectations quickly; I made up a story about her falling in the fire and invited Pip to come up and try to improvise her death scene. He was upset but it did give him a good motivation to go back up to Satis House for the incident at the lime kilns. They discussed it together, she and Pip, and when they were ready I said my goodbyes and left the room. I waited outside with a heavy heart and tensed as there a shriek and a flickering orange light shone beneath the door. I heard Pip curse, and then more thumps and shouts as he smothered the fire with his cape. Jaw clenched, I walked away, my heart heavy with loss. She had been bossy and obnoxious on occasion but she had protected me and taught me well. I would remember her until my dying days.
26
Post-Havisham blues
'The Bellman lived in a grace-and-favour apartment at Norland Park when he wasn't working in The Hunting of the Snark. He had been head of Jurisfiction for twenty years and was required, under Council of Genres mandate, to stand down. The Bellman, oddly enough, had always been called the Bellman — it was no more than coincidence that he had actually been a Bellman himself. The previous Bellman had been Bradshaw and, before him, Virginia Woolf. Under Woolf, Jurisfiction roll-calls tended to last several hours.'
The Well of Lost Plots n-3 Page 26
