The Fandom of the Operator

by Rovert Rankin

  My enjoyment was temporarily spoiled, however, by a lot of noisy banging that suddenly came from the inside of the taxi’s boot.

  I knew that it wasn’t the cabbie.

  And I knew that it wasn’t Sandra’s headless bits and bobs.

  So I suppose that it must have been Barry.

  But it soon calmed down and stopped.

  And the taxi was soon reduced to a charred ruination.

  And so, although I had a terrible hangover, I went off to work at the telephone exchange.

  With a big fat smile on my face.

  20

  Priceless, really, the way things turn out.

  Dave didn’t have a motorbike, but he was the first person to apply for the vacancy at the telephone exchange. For the night-shift bulb-booth operator. Which was still referred to as the position of telecommunications engineer.

  I called in on Dave at a little after eleven p.m.

  “You look a bit shagged out,” said Dave.

  “I am,” said I. “Sandra’s new body is a blinder.”

  “Can I have a go?” Dave asked.

  “Certainly not. Get your own zombie.”

  “Hm,” said Dave. “When you put it like that, it sort of puts it in perspective. I think I’ll stick with living girlfriends.”

  “So, what are we doing tonight?”

  “Well,” said Dave, “I made a list of possibilities.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “And then I crossed them all out.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I used my head,” said Dave. “If you want to be a really great thief, then you have to use your head. You have to put yourself in the position of the person you’re stealing from. Think, if I were you where would I, as you, hide the booty?”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “So,” said Dave, “it occurred to me that we would not be the first people to come up with this idea. After all, FLATLINE, or Operation Orpheus, has been around since wartime. Don’t you think that others before us would have thought of doing what we intend to do?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You’re right.”

  “I am,” said Dave. “So, following the direction of this thinking, where does it lead us to?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Where?”

  “To the top,” said Dave. “You’d have to go to the top.”

  “To God?” I said.

  “To Winston Churchill,” said Dave.

  “What?” said I.

  “Churchill would know,” said Dave, “where all the Nazi booty went. He’d have got his Hitler impersonator to find out. So Churchill is the man to speak to.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know about this,” I said. “We’re not just going for Nazi booty here. We’re going for all booty.”

  “In recent history, the Nazis nicked the most. It’s probably all in Switzerland in special bank vaults.”

  “I’m getting out of my depth here,” I said.

  “I’m not,” said Dave. “Nicking is my business. Let me have an hour on the phone with Mr Churchill and we’ll both be rich men. I’ve looked up his death date, like you told me you have to. I’ve got it here. Let’s do it.”

  “Well, I can’t see any harm in that. Let’s give it a go. Follow me.”

  And Dave followed me.

  We took the lift to the seventeenth floor. I picked the lock of room 23 and led Dave to the telephone box. “Take as long as you like,” I said. “Dial in his full name and date of birth,” and I explained to him all the rest, “and do your stuff.”

  “Sorted,” said Dave and he entered the telephone box.

  I dithered about outside. I paced up and down, then I sat and smoked a cigarette. Then I paced, then sat and smoked another one.

  At what seemed a very great length, Dave emerged from the telephone box. And Dave didn’t look very well.

  “Are you all right?” I asked him. “You look a bit shaky.”

  “I am a bit shaky,” said Dave. “I wasn’t expecting to hear all that I just heard. That Winston Churchill is a very angry dead man.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Why?”

  “He says that he was betrayed. He says that a secret elite is plotting to take over the world.”

  “The British government,” I said. “You told me that.”

  “Not them,” said Dave. “He says aliens.”

  “Space aliens?”

  “According to Winston Churchill. And who is going to argue with him?”

  “Did he say anything about the booty?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Dave. “He said lots. Apparently there’s a secret underground complex beneath Mornington Crescent tube station. All the booty is there. And all the rest of it. The real communications network centre.”

  “For communications with the dead?”

  “No, the aliens. The aliens who are us.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said. “But let me tell you this, Dave, and I’m sorry I didn’t mention it to you earlier. You can’t take everything the dead say as gospel truth. They have a tendency to make stuff up. They tell a lot of lies. I wouldn’t take this aliens stuff too seriously if I were you.”

  “I wouldn’t have,” said Dave, “except that it tied up with something that you told me years ago, when we were kids. Remember when you told me that you’d overheard those two blokes talking about human beings not really doing their own thinking? About their thoughts being directed from somewhere else outside their heads? About our brains being receivers and transmitters but not really brains that do thinking? Remember?”

  “I do remember,” I said. “Those two young men in the restricted section of the Memorial Library. One of them works here now.”

  “And there was something about this at your daddy’s trial, although it wasn’t reported in the papers.”

  “The Daddy must have known something about all this,” I said.

  “He did work for the GPO,” said Dave. “And you told me that he was on bomb disposal in the war. Perhaps he was part of the secret operations network.”

  “Now, hold on,” I said. “Are we going to get rich here, or not?”

  “That sounds like the kind of question I should be asking.”

  “Well, you ask it, then.”

  “No,” said Dave. “But I’ll ask you this. What do you think we should do? We could go to Mornington Crescent and if there’s anything valuable there that can be nicked I assure you that I can nick it. Or, and this is a big or, we could go to Mornington Crescent and try to find out what the truth of all this really is. What do you think?”

  I thought long and I thought hard and it was a whole lot of thinking.

  “All right,” I said, when finally I had done all the thinking that I could do. “Let’s go.”

  “And do what?” asked Dave. “One or the other?”

  “Let’s do both,” I said.

  “OK,” said Dave. “That’s cool.”

  Now, this wasn’t going to be easy, because I worked the day shift and Dave worked the night shift and so I couldn’t see how we could go together. And even if we did go together, how we were going to find what we were looking for, whatever exactly that was. I confided my doubts to Dave and Dave was, as Dave had always been, optimistic and up for no good. And, as he always had been, up to doing things at his leisure.

  “You leave it with me,” said Dave. “I have to do a bit more research with a few more dead men. I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

  “Don’t you want me to let you into room 23 each night?” I asked. But that was a stupid question. This was Dave, after all.

  “I’ll let myself in,” said Dave. “You go home. Give my best to Sandra, if you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do. And if we meet as we change shifts, just nod. Pretend you don’t know me.”

  “OK,” I said and I shook hands with Dave. I felt absolutely confident in Dave. After all, he was my bestest friend and he had never, ever, let me down. I trusted him. He was t
he only one I had ever owned up to regarding my homicidal tendencies. I’d never mentioned them to Sandra. Some things you just don’t say to your wife although you would say them to your mate. It’s a man-thing, I suppose.

  So I went home and gave Dave’s best to Sandra.

  And for the next week I just nodded to Dave when I changed shifts with him, and he nodded back when he changed shifts with me. And then I found a note on the table of the bulb booth telling me to meet him on Friday evening at eight-thirty at the Golden Dawn.

  So on Friday evening I togged up in my very bestest, put Sandra’s head in the fridge to keep it fresh and stop her wandering about while I was out, and strolled off down the road towards the Golden Dawn.

  It was a fine Friday evening. It smelled of fish and chips, as Friday evenings so often do, and there was still some sun left, as there generally is on a summery Brentford evening. And as I strolled along I wondered, quietly and all to myself, exactly what Dave might have come up with and where it might lead me and whether it might make me rich. Because I was warming more and more to the prospect of becoming rich. I felt that it was about time that I got what I knew I deserved.

  It was all quiet and peaceful in the Golden Dawn. As quiet and peaceful as it had been the last time I was there. Which was more than six months before: on the night of my wedding anniversary, when Sandra had told me that she was going off for the caravanning holiday with Count Otto Black. I had Sandra wearing red now, by the way. I felt that she had mourned long enough.

  But I’d actually quite forgotten about Eric the barman’s threats to me. About how he said he’d grass me up if I didn’t find out all about what went on in Developmental Services, because he had this thing about people’s True Names and how some of the folk in Developmental Services – well, one at least: Neil Collins – didn’t seem to have a True Name.

  When I strolled into the Golden Dawn, and saw him standing there behind the pump, it brought it all back to me and I really cursed Count Otto for fouling up the orders I had sent him through the voodoo medium of Frank the invisible Chinaman, which caused him to butcher my Sandra instead of the blackmailing landlord.

  I only mention all this in case you might have forgotten about it.

  “Well, well, well, well,” said Eric. “If it isn’t my old chum the Archduke of Alpha Centuri.”

  “Well, well, well, well,” I replied. “If it isn’t my very good friend Kimberlin Malkuth, Lord of a Thousand Suns. A pint of Large, please, and a packet of crisps.”

  “I’ve been missing you,” said the barlord. “For so many months now. You and I had an understanding, I remember.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “I’ve not forgotten. But I had a death in the family. My dear Sandra was cruelly taken from me.”

  “Yes,” said Eric. “I read about all that in the papers. Tragic business. Poor Lady Fairflower of the Rainbow Mountains. The world is a sadder place without her.”

  I nodded and he nodded and then he presented me with my pint. “But life goes on,” he said. “We should be grateful for that.”

  “We should,” I agreed.

  “And the fact that you stand there before me means that you are now all grieved out and ready to face life without the Lady Fairflower. It also means that you have come to tell me all that I need to know regarding Developmental Services.”

  “It does,” I said. “Shall we step outside and discuss this matter in private?”

  The barlord nodded and I smiled at the barlord.

  A hand, however, fell upon my shoulder.

  I turned and said, “Dave,” for Dave’s hand it was that had fallen.

  “Not now,” whispered Dave in my ear. “Wait until after closing time. You can do for him and I will do for the cash register.”

  “You are, as ever, as wise as your years,” I whispered back. “I’ll tell you everything later,” I said to Eric. “After closing, in private.”

  “Right,” said Eric. “And you see that you do. I’ll lock up, then when I’ve kicked everyone out I’ll let you back in the side door.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “Double perfect,” said Dave.

  “A pint for Dave too,” I said to Eric.

  “Indeed,” said the barlord. “Always a pleasure to serve a pint to Barundi Fandango the Jovian Cracksman.” And Eric once more did the business.

  Dave took me over to a side table and we took sup from our pints.

  “It has to be this weekend,” said Dave.

  “What does?” I asked.

  “Mornington Crescent. We have to go this weekend.”

  “OK,” I said. “But why?”

  “Because I’m in too much danger of getting nicked and dragged back to prison. I’m working at the telephone exchange under a fake name. I’m a wanted man, remember. I told them that my cards and my P45 were being sent on by my last employer, but I think they’re already becoming suspicious. I shall have to run this weekend no matter what. So we do it now, or we don’t do it at all.”

  “Seems reasonable,” said I. “What is your plan?”

  “Well, I’ve chatted with a lot of dead blokes this week and remembering what you said about them lying, I’ve been careful to cross-reference everything. I know how to get into Mornington Crescent and I have a pretty good idea of what kind of booty is in there. And it’s lots. But there’s something more. Something in there that frightens the dead and they don’t want to tell me about.”

  “Something that frightens the dead? I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Dave shook his head. “You’ve had months and months at this, haven’t you?” he said. “You could have asked loads and loads of questions of the dead. You could have found out amazing stuff. Why didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve thought about this,” I said. “Death was my major interest when I was young. All I ever wanted to do was find out the point of it. I could never see the point, do you understand? I could see the point of life, but never death.

  “I wanted to find out the truth. But when it actually came to it, when I actually found myself talking to the dead, I never had the nerve to ask. The first dead person I spoke to was my dad and he wanted to tell me something fantastic. But Barry cut me off and I never spoke to him again. I bottled out. I don’t know why. I think it’s because the living aren’t supposed to know and I didn’t want to know.”

  Dave shook his head again. “You’re a real mess, Gary,” he said. “Other people, given the opportunity that you were given, would really have gone for it. They’d have found out.”

  “So, have you found out, then? The truth about everything?”

  “No,” said Dave. “I haven’t. But that’s because they wouldn’t tell me. But I know enough to know where to look. It’s all there at Mornington Crescent. And if you have the bottle to go there with me, we’ll find out together.”

  “I have the bottle,” I said. “I’m not scared. I’m brave.”

  “That’s good,” said Dave. “But you are telling me the truth, aren’t you? There’s no going back. When we do what I plan that we’re going to do, there will be no going back. It’s a total commitment.”

  I sipped at my pint. “What exactly are you saying?” I asked.

  “I’m saying that this is the big one. For you and for me. If we don’t do this, if we don’t do the Big One, do it and get away, it will be all up for us. They’ll get us, Gary. They’ll catch me and drag me back to boring Strangeways. And they’ll get you too. It’s only a matter of time before they get you. You’ve killed thirty-three people. No, it’s thirty-four now, isn’t it? Counting Sandra’s body-donor.”

  “It’s thirty-five, actually.”

  “Thirty-five?”

  “There was this smelly old tramp yesterday as I was walking to work. He asked me for money. He was so ugly. God, I’ve always hated ugly people.”

  “Then I’m glad I’m so damnedly handsome.”

  “You’re not all that handsome.”

  “But I’m not
ugly.”

  “No,” I said, “you’re not ugly, Dave.”

  “Well, thank the Lord for that. So it’s thirty-five and by the end of this evening it will probably be thirty-six.”

  “It will definitely be thirty-six.”

  “So it’s time to be away. Do the Big One and away to Rio. We’ll shack up with Ronnie Biggs.”

  “I’ll have to take Sandra. She can’t manage on her own.”

  “We’ll take Sandra. It will be like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and the woman on the crossbar of the bike whose name no one can remember.”

  “Why should anyone want to remember the name of a bike?” I asked.

  “Was that some sad attempt at humour?”

  “Possibly,” I said and I finished my pint. “So what you’re saying is that we pull off this huge Big One this weekend, then have it away on our toes to Rio.”

  “If you’re up for it.”

  “I am,” I said. “I’m absolutely up for it.”

  “Good,” said Dave. “I’m so very glad that you said that.”

  I shrugged. “Fine,” I said.

  “No,” said Dave. “I mean that I’m very glad. Because, you see, you can’t go back to work at the telephone exchange, even if you want to. So I’m glad. All’s well that ends well, or, we hope, will end well, eh?”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Slow down. What are you saying?”

  “I was certain that you’d say yes,” said Dave. “Which is why I’m here.”

  “Yes, I can see that you’re here. What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m here. I’m here now. At this minute, no one’s manning the bulb booth, nor will do ever again.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked once more, but with a different emphasis.

  “Ah,” said Dave, cupping a hand to his ear. “Listen.”

  I listened and from the distance I heard the sound of bells. And sirens too, as well as bells.

  “Fire engines,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Dave. “The telephone exchange is on fire.”

  “It is?” I said. “How do you know?”

  Dave looked at me and raised his eyebrows.