THURSDAY NEXT – The Jurisfiction Chronicles
Making one's home in an unpublished novel wasn't without its compensations. All the boring day-to-day
mundanities that we conduct in the real world get in the way of narrative flow and are thus generally
avoided. The car didn't need refuelling, there were never any wrong numbers, there was always enough
hot water, and vacuum-cleaner bags came in only two sizes – upright and pull-along. There were other,
more subtle differences, too. For instance, no one ever needed to repeat themselves in case you didn't
hear, no one shared the same name, talked at the same time or had a word annoyingly 'on the tip of their
tongue'. Best of all, the bad guy was always someone you knew of and – Chaucer aside – there wasn't
much farting. But there were some downsides. The relative absence of breakfast was the first and most
notable difference to my daily timetable. Inside books, dinners are often written about and therefore
feature frequently, as do lunches and afternoon tea; probably because they offer more opportunities to
further the story. Breakfast wasn't all that was missing. There was a peculiar lack of cinemas, wallpaper,
toilets, colours, books, animals, underwear, smells, haircuts and, strangely enough, minor illnesses. If
someone was ill in a book it was either terminal and dramatically unpleasant or a mild head cold – there
wasn't much in between.
I was able to take up residence inside fiction by virtue of a scheme entitled the Character Exchange
Programme. Owing to a spate of bored and disgruntled bookpeople escaping from their novels and
becoming what we called 'PageRunners', the authorities set up the scheme to allow characters a change of
scenery. In any year there are close to ten thousand exchanges, few of which result in any major plot or
dialogue infringements – the reader rarely suspects anything at all. Since I was from the real world and
not actually a character at all, the Bellman and Miss Havisham had agreed to let me live inside the
BookWorld in exchange for helping out at Jurisfiction – at least as long as my pregnancy would allow.
The choice of book for my self-enforced exile had not been arbitrary; when Miss Havisham asked me in
which novel I would care to reside I had thought long and hard. Robinson Crusoe would have been ideal
considering the climate but there was no one female to exchange with. I could have gone to Pride and
Prejudice but I wasn't wild about high collars, bonnets, corsets – and delicate manners. No, to avoid any
complications and reduce the possibility of having to move, I had decided to make my home in a book of
such dubious and uneven quality that publication and my subsequent enforced ejection were unlikely in
the extreme. I found just such a book deep within the Well of Lost Plots among failed attempts at prose
and half-finished epics of such dazzling ineptness that they would never see the light of day. The book
was a dreary crime thriller set in Reading entitled Caversham Heights. I had planned to stay there for only
a year but it didn't work out that way. Plans with me are like De Floss novels – try as you might, you
never know quite how they are going to turn out.
I read my way into Caversham Heights. The air felt warm after the wintry conditions back home and I
found myself standing on a wooden jetty at the edge of a lake. In front of me there was a large and
seemingly derelict flying boat of the sort that still plied the coastal routes back home. I had flown on one
myself not six months before on the trail of someone claiming to have found some unpublished Burns
poetry. But that was another lifetime ago, when I was with SpecOps in Swindon, the world I had
temporarily left behind.
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