Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

‘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.

‘That’s it,’ replied Miss Havisham ‘Not much to it, is there? Wait! Look there!’

She pointed to the side of the prison hulk where a strange creature had attached itself to one of the gunports It had large bat-like wings folded untidily across the back of its body, which was covered by patchy tufts of matted fur. It had a face like a fox, sad brown eyes and a long, thin beak that was inserted deep into the wood of the gunport. It was oblivious to us both and made quiet sucky noises as it fed.

There was a loud explosion and a bullet struck close to the strange creature. It immediately unfolded its large wings in alarm and flew off into the night.

‘Blast!’ said Miss Havisham, lowering her pistol and pushing the safety back on. ‘Missed!’

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.