Lost in a Good Book

‘What?’ he replied sulkily.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court the colour that Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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