Lost in a Good Book

‘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.

‘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