He pulled a signed glossy photo of himself from his breast pocket and passed it to me with a wink. The odd thing was, I actually recognised him. He had been acting with great success in Hollywood under the name of Buck Stallion, which probably explained where he got his money from; he could have bought Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights three times over on his salary.

'The Council of Genres has decreed that you will attend the sessions, Heathcliff,' said Havisham coldly. 'If this book is to survive we have to control the emotions within it; as it is the novel is three times more barbaric than when first penned — left to its own devices it won't be long before murder and mayhem start to take over completely. Remember what happened to that once gentle comedy of manners, Titus Andronicus? It's now the daftest, most cannibalistic bloodfest in the whole of Shakespeare. Heights will go the same way unless you can all somehow contain your anger and resentment!'

'I don't want to be made into a pie!' moaned Linton.

'Brave speech,' replied Heathcliff sardonically, 'very brave.' He leaned closer to Miss Havisham, who stood her ground defiantly. 'Let me "share" something with your little group. Wuthering Heights and all who live within her may go to the devil for all I care. It has served its purpose as I honed the delicate art of treachery and revenge — but I'm now bigger than this book and bigger than all of you. There are better novels waiting for me out there, that know how to properly service a character of my depth!'

There was a gasp from the assembled characters as this new intelligence sank in. Without Heathcliff there would be no book — and in consequence, none of them, either.

'You wouldn't make it into Spot's Birthday without the Council's permission,' growled Havisham. 'Try and leave Heights and we'll make you wish you'd never been written!'

Heathcliff laughed.

'Nonsense! The Council has urgent need of characters such as I; leaving me stuck in the classics where I am only ever read by bored English students is a waste of one of the finest romantic leads ever written. Mark my words, the Council will do whatever it takes to attract a greater readership — a transfer will not be opposed by them or anyone else, I can assure you of that!'

'What about us?' wailed Linton, coughing and on the verge of tears. 'We'll be reduced to text!'

'Best thing for all of you!' growled Heathcliff. 'And I'll be there at the shoreline, ready to rejoice at your last strangled cry as you dip beneath the waves!'

'And me?' asked Catherine.

'You will come with me.' Heathcliff smiled, softening. 'You and I will live again in a modern novel, without all these trappings of Victorian rectitude; I thought we could reside in a spy thriller somewhere, and have a boxer puppy with one ear that goes down—'

There was a loud detonation and the front door exploded inwards in a cloud of wood splinters and dust. Havisham instantly pushed Heathcliff to the ground and laid herself across him, yelling:

'Take cover!'

She fired her small derringer as a masked man jumped through the smoking doorway firing a machine gun. Havisham's bullet struck home and the figure crumpled in a heap. One of Heathcliff's two minders took rounds in the neck and chest from the first assailant but the second minder pulled out his own sub-machine gun and opened up as more assassins ran in. Linton fainted on the spot, quickly followed by Isabella and Edgar. At least it stopped them screaming. I drew my gun and fired along with the minder and Havisham as another masked figure came through the door; we got him but one of his bullets caught the second bodyguard in the head, and he dropped lifeless to the flags. I crawled across to Havisham and also laid myself across Heathcliff, who whimpered:

'Help me! Don't let them kill me! I don't want to die!'

'Shut up!' yelled Havisham, and Heathcliff was instantly quiet. I looked around. His agent was cowering under a briefcase and the rest of the cast were hiding beneath the oak table. There was a pause.

'What's going on?' I hissed.

'ProCath attack,' murmured Havisham, reloading her pistol in the sudden quiet. 'Support of the young Catherine and hatred of Heathcliff run deep in the BookWorld; usually it's only a lone gunman — I've never seen anything this well coordinated before. I'm going to jump out with Heathcliff; I'll be back for you straight away.'

She mumbled a few words but nothing happened. She tried them again out loud but still nothing.

'The devil take them!' she muttered, pulling her mobile footnoterphone from the folds of her wedding dress. 'They must be using a textual sieve.'

'What's a textual sieve?'

'I don't know — it's never fully explained.'

She looked at the mobile footnoterphone and shook it despairingly.

'Blast! No signal. Where's the nearest footnoterphone?'

'In the kitchen,' replied Nelly Dean, 'next to the bread basket.'

'We have to get word to the Bellman. Thursday, I want you to go to the kitchen—'

But she never got to finish her sentence as a barrage of machine-gun fire struck the house, decimating the windows and shutters; the curtains danced as they were shredded, the plaster erupting off the wall as the shots slammed into it. We kept our heads down as Catherine screamed, Linton woke up only to faint again, Hindley took a swig from a hip flask and Heathcliff convulsed with fear beneath us. After about ten minutes the firing stopped. Dust hung lazily in the air and we were covered with plaster, shards of glass and wood chips.

'Havisham!' said a voice on a bullhorn from outside. 'We wish you no harm! Just surrender Heathcliff and we'll leave you alone!'

'No!' cried the older Catherine, who had crawled across to us and was trying to clasp Heathcliff's head in her hands. 'Heathcliff, don't leave me!'

'I have no intention of doing any such thing,' he said in a muffled voice, nose pressed hard into the flags by myself and Havisham's combined weight. 'Havisham, I hope you remember your orders.'

'Send out Heathcliff and we will spare you and your apprentice!' yelled the bullhorn again. 'Stand in our way and you'll both be terminated!'

'Do they mean it?' I asked.

'Oh, yes,' replied Havisham grimly. 'A group of ProCaths attempted to hijack Madame Bovary last year to force the Council to relinquish Heathcliff.'

'What happened?'

'The ones who survived were reduced to text,' replied Havisham, 'but it hasn't stopped the ProCath movement. Do you think you can get to the footnoterphone?'

'Sure — I mean, yes, Miss Havisham.'

I crawled towards the kitchen.

'We'll give you two minutes,' said the voice on the bullhorn again. 'After that, we're coming in.'

'I have a better deal,' yelled Havisham.

There was pause.

'And that is?' spoke the bullhorn.

'Leave now and I will be merciful when I find you.'

'I think,' replied the voice on the bullhorn, 'that we'll stick to my plan. You have one minute forty-five seconds.'

I reached the doorway of the kitchen, which was as devastated as the living room. Flour and beans from broken storage jars were strewn across the floor and a flurry of snowflakes were blowing in through the windows. I found the footnoterphone; it had been riddled with machine-gun fire. I cursed and crawled rapidly back towards the living room. I caught Havisham's eye and shook my head. She signalled for me to look out the back way and I did, going into the darkness of the pantry to peer out. I could see two of them, sitting in the snow, weapons ready. I dashed back to Havisham.

'How does it look?'

'Two at the back that I can see.'

'And at least three at the front,' she added. 'I'm open to suggestions.'

'How about giving them Heathcliff?' came a chorus of voices.