The next morning, we have a quick breakfast and then put on our disguises. The Titania is due to dock at 10 a.m. in Marseilles, a port in the south of France.
‘Perhaps,’ I say, ‘as we’re in disguise, we could just casually go down the gangplank with everyone else? Because sometimes—’
A key grinds in our door. What?!
‘You can’t come in,’ I call out. ‘I’m folding my underwear and my companions are doing a crossword. They’re currently stuck on a seven-letter word that starts with B and ends in D . . . a medicinal dressing applied to a minor wound—’
The door flings inwards and two big men in black overalls and black masks come storming in. They are wearing packs and carrying rolls of masking tape and a coil of rope!
‘Da word is bandaid,’ the biggest man spits out. ‘And you’ll need a ’undred of ’em if you don’t come quietly. Because dis game of charades is over.’
We’re cornered! The leader turns to me.
‘Do anyfink clever, punky-boy, and you’ll be one dead duck.’
The situation is desperate, so I reach into a box, take out one of the fake guns that has a silencer on it, and aim it at the gentleman in black. Boy, it’s rather heavy for recycled plastic.
‘We’re leaving,’ I say. ‘Get in the bathroom, or it’ll be you needing the bandaids, sirs. And if you think they’re difficult to get out of the packet now, just try it when you’re full of bullet holes.’
The big guys stop, giving Chase the chance to grab our backpacks and push Isobel towards the door.
‘Into the bathroom, thank you,’ I repeat, with concrete and ice in my voice. ‘Or I’ll—’
The big guy steps towards me. ‘Or whot, snotty boy?’
Tzit! Tzit! Tzit! Tzit! Pzeeow, pzeeow, pzeeow, pzeeow!
The gun kicks and bullets buzz around the cabin like enraged bees! Holy pyjama party! The damn thing’s real! And I see, when the smoke clears, that the two monsters have jumped into the bathroom and shut the door, which I simply lock before stepping out on the deck, turning the key in the cabin door then dropping it and the gun into the ocean.
‘Bravo, Georgie-boy,’ Chase says as we walk away as though nothing has happened. ‘Wow! You’re a real gunfighter.’
I am shaking. ‘You said those things weren’t real.’
He shrugs as we look for a place to keep safely out of the way.
‘I didn’t go through them all,’ he says. ‘Anyway, no harm done, so it’s fun, fun, fun!’
I’m about to disagree in the strongest terms when a caped figure drops from a lifeboat. It’s Pierre, wearing ballet shoes and holding a stack of books.
‘Come with me, chaps!’ He tucks the books under one arm. ‘Roland’s searching every deck. But I have a lovely plan!’
We follow Pierre into a service lift that delivers us down into a huge open space that smells of oil and echoes with deafening clangs and bangs as metal hits metal and things grind and grate. I see there are dumpsters filled with bulging rubbish bags and one that is half-filled with books.
‘I’m spring-cleaning the library,’ Pierre explains. ‘Once I’ve read the books, I just send them away and get new ones. It’s a good system.’
If anyone cares to look, they will see my self-tracking safety wallet bulges with library cards collected over a lifetime. So when it comes to library operations, I would modestly call myself something of an expert.
‘But other people,’ I suggest to Pierre, ‘might want to read the books, mightn’t they?’
Pierre drops the books into the container. ‘They had their chance, George. It’s not my job to make sure that the damn things are borrowed.’
I would heartily disagree, but I reluctantly leave the discussion of the librarian’s role in modern society for another day.
‘What’s your plan, Pierre?’
Pierre points. ‘You hide in there with the books. And although it’ll be a bit dark to read once the lid’s locked, the box will be taken off the ship sometime this morning. Then you simply walk away when the container arrives wherever it’s supposed to arrive at.’
‘Which is where, Pierre?’ I ask.
Pierre considers. ‘Somewhere, I suppose.’
‘More information,’ says Chase. ‘Please.’
‘France?’ Pierre’s eyebrows go down. ‘I don’t know. Where do old books go? The shredder? Back to the idiots who wrote them?’
‘I’m not getting into that box.’ Isobel shakes her head.
I’m not keen on being put through a shredder by an illiterate French person with no regard for printed or human matter, either.
‘Perhaps,’ Pierre says, ‘you could use the gangway that the crew uses. Although you don’t look like sailors.’
I pat Pierre on the back. ‘That’s a wonderful idea.’
Chase looks around. ‘Pierre, can we grab some of those overalls hanging up over there? It’ll be like borrowing library books, except that they might not be returned.’
Pierre looks confused. ‘Are library books supposed to come back? Really? I just thought it was people being annoying. But yes, take the overalls. Although that dark green colour would only suit the dullest of types. Green? Yuk schmuck! Dreadful colours for dreadful people, that’s what I say.’
Well, I was about say that I quite like the dark green, but I won’t now.
Chase goes to the rack and takes down three pairs of overalls. ‘You’ve saved the day, Pierre. And I’d like to give you a little cash reward.’
‘Oh, no, Chase. I don’t want money.’ Pierre wags a pink finger. ‘I only wish to help. Besides, my leotards have no pockets, and I don’t want to poke it anywhere that might scratch.’ He backs away. ‘Travel safe, dear friends. Bye-bye.’ And slowly he climbs up a steel grating and out of sight.
‘If only everybody in the world was that good,’ says Isobel.
‘But they’re not.’ Chase puts his white Foreign Legion hat into his bag, but leaves his Shirley Temple wig on. ‘Let’s get cracking. Because this next bit’s going to be tricky.’