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‘Pesky thing to hunt down. Noun. Seems to be in a translation of the Æneid, and I’m assuming it has something to do with scallywag – say, I don’t suppose,’ and here Bielefeld coughed lightly and looked up at the rumpled Winceworth through his lashes, ‘I don’t suppose you have any ideas about it? For scurryvaig, I mean – with an i after the—’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Only ask because I’ve got a backlog on swingeouris, and swanis too and it looks like I will have a rather rum couple of weeks ahead of me.’ Bielefeld caught Winceworth’s eye. ‘But, I say, what on earth has happened to you? You look like you’ve been settling punches with a volcano. And is that ink down your shirt?’ He flapped at Winceworth’s chest. It puffed back a reply with brick dust. ‘Should I – should I get you to a doctor or somesuch?’

‘I’m fine,’ Winceworth said. ‘There was an accident – it doesn’t matter, I don’t think. I just left some work that needs finishing up here and then I will be right off to bed.’

Bielefeld regarded him. ‘You have bags under your eyes that I could carry pens in. You’ll look dreadful for the staff photograph tomorrow.’

‘Oh, dear God.’

‘But are you quite certain you should be here? I would stay with you but—’ Bielefeld pointed over at his desk, all its papers neatened up for departure and his Swansby attaché case waiting. He attempted an apologetic smile. ‘Was all set to go, you know. And I’ve bought tickets for the ballet.’

Winceworth flicked dust from an ear. ‘I’m only here because I’ve been absent most of the afternoon. Tying up some loose threads.’ He smiled ghastily. Bielefeld did not seem to notice.

‘Frasham mentioned that he ran into you dining on tea and cakes,’ Bielefeld said, and he angled his face towards Winceworth to see if an account would be forthcoming. Winceworth kept his eyes fixed. He wondered whether Bielefeld could smell the Barking reviving alcohol on him. ‘And his fiancée!’ cried Bielefeld, and he laughed and clapped a friendly hand again to Winceworth’s shoulder. ‘Well,’ Bielefeld continued, going over to his desk and picking up his things, ‘if you’re sure. Just as long as you’re not – I mean to say, you look like you’ve been hit by an omnibus. Always scribble, scribble, scribble! Eh, Mr Gibbon and all that. Make sure that you do not overdo it.’

‘I shall endeavour to not do so.’ Winceworth watched Bielefeld slowly take his leave. He stopped to pet one of the Swansby cats on the way out and hummed some bars of Tchaikovsky. The cat avoided his hand. Winceworth wondered what anecdote Bielefeld might be composing for his colleagues about the whole matter.

Winceworth was left alone in the echoing hall of the Scrivenery.

He moved to his own desk, and out of habit he reached for his pen in its usual place in his jacket. He drew out the new fountain pen Sophia had bought for him.

He spun the pen across his fingers. Two sleepy Swansby kittens were draped over the neighbouring bureau and both moved their heads slowly in synchrony, watching the pen twirl back and forth through his hand. He waved it around for their benefit until they appeared to lose interest. Tiredness yawped and tangled across his vision as he reached into his case and placed his idly doodled, fictitious entries on the desk. His little diversions, sketched-out underminings and skits. He rubbed his eyes and saw again the strange, blasting, indefinable colour snarl around the edges of his vision.

A daydream, tinged by anger, became a surreptitious hope. His imagination stumbled and flew a little as he looked around at the pigeonholes filled with entries ready to be filed. The pen felt a devious weight in his hand. He flicked through his notes for dawdle-scrawled false definitions. His handwriting there looked so much more relaxed than when pressed into official duty. He looked again from these secret, silly words to the Swansby House pigeonholes. There was grit in the thumbnails and traces of blood. The thought became clear and clean: it would take just some small strokes of pen to transfer these doodled drafts onto the official blue index cards and he could pepper the dictionary with false entries. Thousands of them – cuckoos-in-the-nest, changeling words, easily overlooked mistakes. He could define parts of the world that only he could see or for which he felt responsible. He could be in control of a whole universe of new meanings, private triumphs and soaring new truths all hidden in the printed pages whenever the dictionary was finished and (absurd notion!) others might find his words in print. He would never be known as a poet or a statesman, never be known as anything really – but if Prof. Gerolf Swansby’s vision for Swansby’s New Encyclopaedic Dictionary was achieved, Winceworth imagined his personal words and thoughts on every bookshelf up and down the country.