Dear Reader, those ladies and gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars from the beginning to the end and send them forthwith to you by correspondence electronical, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace ____ and go back to the time when my mother kept the Benbow Inn and that old soak of an editor Billy Blakemore first took up his lodging under our roof.

I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his tea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow--a tall, strong, heavy man, his pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the paper cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, clutching to his chest the battered laptop which was to be his constant companion in the months ahead. Then he rapped on the door with a black memorystick in a rubberised casing that he carried, and when my mother appeared, called roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him, he drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste and still looking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard.

"Free wi-fi say ye, and a pleasant sittyated grog-shop. Much company, ma’am?"

My mother told him no, very little company, the more was the pity, with flights abroad being so cheap to purchase lately and the weather having been so abysmal.

"Well, then," said he, "this is the berth for me. Here you, matey," he cried to the man who trundled the barrow; "bring up alongside and help up my chest. I'll stay here a bit," he continued. "I'm a plain man; rum, broadband and bacon is all the sustynance I’ll need.”





Mother and I had fallen on hard times since the death of my father and the discovery that he had squandered his advance on some highly irregular eBay trading.
We had sold our residence in London and made the second home into the One and Only, taking up domicile in this small seaside cottage in the village of B------, a picturesque spot on the S---- coast, regular haunt of smugglers and water colourists.

I cannot fully convey how profoundly I mourned my father’s untimely passing. He had been a distant figure in my youth, but when he did return from his frequent travel assignments, I liked nothing more than to sit on his knee in his study and listen to him relating stories of his adventures into the dictaphone. However when he died I must admit I took some guilty pleasure in the results of our ensuing financial fall from grace. Though I missed my companions from the metropolis, I had a preference for melancholy and my own company, so it was some relief to escape. Here at the Benbow I had a serious job of work to do. Though it shames me to admit it, I was thrilled to be lugging metal barrels of fisherman’s ale up from the cellar to affix them, like milking machines to the teats of warm udders, to the pumps in the bar. Mastering the art of frothing up the toppings for cappuccinos with the jet of steam expelled by the Gaggia gave me an intense satisfaction, as did taking the cash of the residents, rogues, renegades and visiting city folk who found their way to our humble tavern; my father would have been proud, I hoped, to see me milking them.

But this new guest, who spent his days in the harbour bar supping rum and cursing obscenely at the screen of his MacBook on which he searched surfed and tapped and clicked from morn to night, struck terror into my young heart.

I was a young man at that time of life in the gap txixt school and university, so when I was not on the beach howling into the wind with grief and hurling stones into the grey, uncaring waves, I spent my free time in my room devouring classic fiction from my reading list and longing for the beautiful Vanessa Dangerfield whose parents had a house in the village.

This was in the days shortly after Vanessa had played the role of Lizzy in the on-line game AustenWorld, directed by her famous father, and images of that soft, slim form encased in corsetry permeated the media. I was deranged with adoration, and our families having been friends over the course of many holidays in the village, Vanessa, hiding from the limelight supposedly to revise for her finals, was being unusually kind to me in the light of our recent bereavement, showing a tenderness and compassion which I was eager to exploit for all it was worth.





To my delight, Vanessa, a treasure indeed with her bouncing ringlets and tight blue jeans, had in the weeks following the editor’s arrival, taken to spending most evenings with me in the Benbow. She toyed with her hair, sipped at a pint of best bitter and received calls on her mobile from agents, publicists, co-stars and sometimes friends, whilst reading her way through a pile of scripts for television adaptations, from time to time giving me meltingly delicious and solicitous smiles when I passed by to collect empties.

As I cleared and cleaned tables, I also attempted to peek over the shoulder of the odious Mr Blakemore who sat nearby the open fire reeking of petrol and sweat, knocking back Havana Club and muttering ferociously to himself as he pored over the laptop screen.

What fiendish endeavour was the abominable wretch at work upon? I, like you too I hope, was gagging to know.

I know there are readers in the world, as well as many other good people in it, who are no readers at all,—who find themselves ill at ease, unless they are let into the whole secret from first to last, of every thing which concerns you.

So let me cut to the quick. One night when the old soak tottered into the gents for a pee, I seized the moment to examine his MacBook more closely.

Google Earth? - maybe hybrid mode – some kind of island in a sea of blue – a mass of those blobby arrow things pointing at different spots on it… I bent closer to the screen to look in more detail.

Then suddenly a hand touched my shoulder. With a yelp of terror I spun round, dropping an empty tankard which smashed to smithereens upon the floor.

Vanessa said, “Sorry, Nathan. I’ve got to go now but can you meet me at the Pumproom tomorrow? We’ve got to talk!”

And she was gone.





With more than usual eagerness did I hasten to the Pumproom the next day in the nearby town of S----------, secure within myself of seeing Ms. Dangerfield there before the morning were over, and ready to meet her with a smile: - but no smile was demanded – Miss Dangerfield did not appear. Every creature in the vicinity, except herself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and she only was absent.

Fuck I thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. And walked home again.




I was relieved to discover the next afternoon that Vanessa had good reasons for failing to appear. She had left her mobile on the bar the night before and, with no means to inform me of her predicament, rushed round to collect it. I asked why she hadn’t phoned me to explain when the phone was recovered. But alas the battery had run down and this too was impossible.

All this she explained as we sat, o joy, on her bed in her room at the Grange, the floor strewn with CDs and DVDs, stuffed animals, tee shirts and underwear. On the wall was a huge framed poster of herself and her co-star in Austenworld.

Vanessa went on to tell me what she had been so keen to express. She said she was aware in herself of a growing restlessness. Out of her disconnexion, a restlessness was taking possession of her like madness. It twitched her limbs when she didn't want to twitch them, it jerked her spine when she didn't want to jerk upright but preferred to rest comfortably. It thrilled inside her body, in her womb, somewhere, till she felt she must jump into water and swim to get away from it; a mad restlessness. It made her heart beat violently for no reason. Vaguely she knew she was out of connexion: she had lost touch with the substantial and vital world. Void to void.

She really needed to get her head together.

Vanessa cried a little at this point, which was great because that gave me an excuse to put my arm around her.

And that gave her an excuse to nestle up to me. And that gave me an excuse to put my other hand on her knee. And that gave her the excuse to hold that hand and look up at me shyly. And that gave me an excuse to stroke her cheek. And that gave her an excuse to smile. And that gave me an excuse to kiss her. And that gave her an excuse to respond and for me to put my hand on her breast…

Except I didn’t need an excuse because I didn’t have the guts to use it. She sat on my bed and cried. Tentatively I touched her shoulder. Then her mobile rang; she put it on silent mode, wiped her nose, got up and said she had to go for a swim.





Blakemore --I shudder to name him! had been a stranger in the house from last Sunday till wednesday. Whether the angels had fed him, or his kin beneath, I couldn’t tell; but he had not eaten a bar snack with us for nearly a week. He had just come home at dawn, and gone up-stairs to his chamber; locking himself in--as if anybody dreamt of coveting his company! There he had continued, attacking his keyboard like some mad church organist: only the deity he implored was senseless dust and ashes; and God, when addressed, was curiously confounded with his own black father! After concluding these precious orisons--and they lasted generally till he grew hoarse and his voice was strangled in his throat--he would be off again; always straight down to the sea!

And then today I did the rounds of the bedrooms fishing towels out of the baths, changing the sheets, repositioning tv remote controls, replenishing shower gel and shampoo bottles and placing Belgian chocolates on pillows.

Now it was just at noon, when all my work was over, and I was on my way to my bedroom to read, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. I slipped into Billy’s room to plunder the complementary fruit bowl. Taking a bite from a rosy pippin and pocketing the remainder, I was just about to tiptoe out when I heard a man speak. It was Blakemore, on his mobile and just about to open the door. In a trice I jumped into his tea chest, closed the lid on top of me and cowered beneath, trembling lest I be discovered. The editor entered, intent on his conversation which I could not help but overhear. Before I had heard a dozen words, I would not have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, trembling and listening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity; for from these dozen words I understood that the fate of English literature depended upon me alone.

Blakemore was attempting to strike a deal with a senior executive from a faraway time zone. He was negotiating his price for the ghastly software he had been developing – an infernal engine which he called ‘The Narrative Device’.




Here was Billy Blakemore’s pitch:
“Now as you know, sir, great classic books in other languages are regularly re-translated into English. Think of Proust as rendered once by Scott Moncrieff, then recently reinterpreted by a number of translators for the new Penguin edition. The text isn’t crudely updated but each time is in some manner refreshed and clarified – like a portrait, carefully cleaned to revive the original colours and re-hung perhaps in a contemporary frame.

“But this process doesn’t happen with books in English. Why not?
SO – imagine this: Dickens, Austen, Shelley… all the classics of Eng Lit enhanced by the Narrative Device – simply feed the document into the device in digital form and instantly it creates a new text, subtly improved and updated and – and here’s the joy of it – back in copyright as a new creation. Think of the profits to be made from downloads, reprints, adaptation! Furthermore the Device has a most ingenious function allowing its owner to pump extracts from these texts into existing writings worldwide – and evenfurthermore to scan the web for copyright breaches, spot illegal extracts, pastiches and the like, then electronically issue fines and automatically deduct the fee due from the current accounts of the guilty parties.”

Crouching in the chest, I was appalled. Also my leg had gone numb and my shoulders ached. When I heard him end the call, cackle to himself and slam the door, I leapt up instantly.

The room was littered with paperback classics, no doubt the plunder which his chest had contained along with the Device. A scanner sat on the windowledge, Blakemore’s memory stick beside it which I picked up and pocketed. But where was the Narrative Device? I was all set to search in earnest it when the door was flung wide.

“Nathan!”
“Vanessa!”
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?!”

“I was.. looking for you.”

“Vanessa,” I whispered, thank god you’re here. You’ve got to help me. There’s no time to lose.”

Vanessa looked dumbfounded, then suddenly threw herself into my arms. “Oh Nathan – I need you!” she cried. “But Vanessa!” I cried. She took my hand, pulled me down the corridor to my room, and once inside began to kiss me fervently. And the narrative device was forgotten.






I woke up crumpled in the early evening to find Vanessa gone. I dressed and went down to the bar. My mother was distraught. “Mister Blakemore has done a bunk. He’s taken his chest and scarpered, not a penny paid. And the minibar has been stripped of its contents”.

I searched Billy’s room for the Narrative Device, but there was no sign. The chest, the books, the scanner – all gone.

But I was more concerned that Vanessa had hurried away without a word after our brief encounter. I phoned her mobile over and over but no reply. I went round to her parent’s place where they told me she’d had to go back to London about a part in a new D H Lawrence shoot ‘em up and had left no message.

In deep gloom I kept to my room, reading, weeping, worrying about the future of fiction, fantasising erotic encounters with Vanessa. O how futile was that!
As the days went by my memories of our snatched moments of rapture warped and changed. No longer did I picture the real young woman – in my imagination she was turning into pure fantasy, sometimes hopelessly idealised, sometimes crudely pornographic. And as my mood darkened, lovesick and speechless, in a dream I tried to summon up my phantasm Vanessa as a palpable reality.

It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and the bulb in my bedside light was on the blink, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wench whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? Her limbs were in proportion, and I had selected her features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! I had desired her with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Vanessa, in the
bloom of health, walking by the beach. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead father in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed.

I really really needed to sort my head out.




And then last night I was on my laptop surfing suicide sites when an Instant Message appeared.

Nathna?
??
It’s V☺
Vanessa?!!!
YES
where have you been?
O nat
What what is it
I need to explain
tell
I knew about the narative device billy told me all – that day after we youknow I saw bill leaving
Really?
I followed him to London – he had a meting arranged with G_____. Don’t worry -I broke into his room stole the device destroyed it.
Phewww – the publishers can breeeeth again
I know. And I canbe with you☺
Oh yes yes when are you coming bak
Not yet nat not not yet
Ohhh
But we could cyber
o wow
have that memory stick there?
Billy’s ? yes I do
I can send you files to download – of me in Lawrencemania 3.
But I want the reel you
Nathan imagineme now in your arms inmyy austenworld costume
Mmmmmmmmmm
Imagine unfasteningunbuckling
Ohyes
And now I kissyou and whisper Nathan I must tell
What
Blakemore sez he has another version of the narrative’s code buried in Second Life embedded in the fabric of the metaverse on an island there O god does it never end
Let you and me go find it there I don’t know how I’ll show you but you’ll need extra memory Well I can insert Bill’s stick Mmmm and you and I must go together to see to sea But i’ve got work and stuff And if not now? Wednesday possibly?
Nat you wimp let’s seize the time lets plunge let’s do it now insert that memory stick then we can fly can plunge can swim in that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the honeyroast nuts in the harbour bar yes and the thumping throb of the sounds of the pump and the coffee machine below o wow and how we kissed in the cyberous night and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then she asked me would I yes go to second sea to find the island of o narrative delight and I say yes and slide my stick in slow and say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around her yes and drew her down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and my heart was going like mad and yes I said probably yes I will Yes
.




O BLACK SPOT! O, I write this from dark depths of despond.
Cut adrift in a sea of words. O woe! & V and BB had been ladychatterleying each other for ages – her stringing me along to get back the memory stick with the device programme on it. I’d no sooner uploaded my gygabites to the metaverse than she’d spilled the beans. She with a bit of a thing she said for the villainous swashbuckling type and her burning ambitions.

That bitch - We went down to the virtual beach Vand I, tore off our virtual clothes and rushed into the icy surf. Of course it wasn't icy at all – we flew we swam in gravity free, sensation proof imagination. V and I set off to our dream life in Second Life but no sooner were we flying through the metaverse than she spilled the beans. Her cyberous sex hoax. O, V & I our love a lie all codes and ciphers. And now the word is out, the best pssible words in the best popsibble order getting ever so costly now when we get lyrical and find weve ripped off new wordsworth or someother old wordsmith remixed back into copyright. The only way around it to umddle words up intentional – unspell desensemake disarticulate or face hefty fines awsha on a a meangless nonsensixal sea - htese w o rds ujst eltters jmulbed pu otetgher, lal a ile.

gdbyeee





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You have performed an illegal operation.
Reader/Writer infringement of multiple Blakemore inc. copyright texts. (Stevenson rs austen j Lawrence d h shelley m sterne l joyce j) -
Account debited accordingly.

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