Ghostwritten

by Unknown

  John murmured in my ear. ‘This is dangerous.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But if you pull it off, I have a term of my own I want to suggest . . .’

  The Texan stomped back into The Green Man.

  ‘What terms do you have in mind, Dr Muntervary?’

  The ground became land, the land an island, and Clear Island just another island amongst the larger ones and smaller ones. Aodhagan a little box. The Texan was in the helicopter cockpit. Two armed marines were behind me, two more in front. Surrounded by men, as usual.

  ‘Cheer up, Mo,’ said John, tightening his grip on my arm. ‘Stick to your guns and Liam will be over for Christmas.’

  Finally, I understand how the electrons, protons, neutrons, photons, neutrinos, positrons, muons, pions, gluons and quarks that make up the universe, and the forces that hold them together, are one.

  Night Train

  ‘Wanna hear how they’re gonna spread the virus over the world, Bat?’

  ‘All I can hear are the sirens of the reality police, Howard.’

  ‘You gotta hear me out! The future of America depends on it! What’s their number one export, Bat?’

  ‘Most authorities agree the answer is “oil”, Howard.’

  ‘That’s what they want you to think! That’s propaganda! It ain’t oil . . .’

  ‘The reality police are kicking down the door, Howard. They’ve got a warrant.’

  ‘You gotta warn people, Bat. The end’s coming.’

  ‘The end has just come, Howard, thank you for calling and—’

  ‘CASHEW NUTS! THEY’RE GONNA SPREAD IT BY CASHEW NUTS!’

  ‘Sorry folks, Howard has an appointment with the full moon. You’re tuned in to the Bat Segundo Show on Night Train FM, 97.8 ’til late. Destination blues, rock, jazz and conversation from midnight until dawn ripples the refrigerated East Coast. It’s 2.45 a.m. on the very last morning of November. Coming up we have a word from our sponsors, which is not going to take very long, and then New York’s Finest, Mr Lou Reed is going to transport us aboard his very own “Satellite of Love”. As usual, our banks of operators are ready and waiting to relay your call direct to the Batphone. Tonight’s conversation safari has included yesterday’s air strikes against North African terrorism, albino eels in our sewers, and Do Eunuchs Make Better Presidents? But please, if your eyebrows meet, if you have no irises or if your reflection in your bathroom mirror is the one who asks the questions, call Darth Vader instead. The Bat will be back.’

  ‘Kevin!’

  ‘Mr Segundo?’

  ‘Fraggle number thirteen during your brief tenure at the switchboard.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Segundo. He seemed okay when he called.’

  ‘They all seem okay when they call, Kevin! That’s why we hire a switchboarder to weed ’em out! Howard was as “okay” as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest.’

  ‘Bat! What say you can it and give Kevin a break?’

  ‘Carlotta! You’re my producer! You should be more on your guard against these Apple Core FM saboteurs! C’mon, Kevin, admit it. You got a secret agenda to turn Night Train FM into Radio Schizoid.’

  ‘Bat, chill it! Insanity never hurt ratings. Especially if they mention Night Train FM at the crime scene.’

  ‘Uh-uh. But there are your weird, wonderful, lunatics-on-theedge-of-genius, and then there are your faeces-slurping lunatics. Howard is your textbook faeces-slurper. No more faeces-slurpers, Kevin, or you get thrown back into the journalism school from whence you emerged. Get it?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Mr Segundo.’

  ‘One more thing: Why are you putting boiled ink into my coffee?’

  ‘Boiled ink, Mr Segundo?’

  ‘Boiled ink, Kevin. This coffee tastes like boiled ink. And stop calling me “Mr Segundo”? You sound like my accountant.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Kevin. “Boiled ink” indicates a secret fondness in Segundo-speak. The coffee our last intern made, he called “Real Estate Agent Squit”.’

  ‘Carlotta, count yourself lucky your difficult-to-overlook sexuality holds an unwavering sway over certain media executives, because if—’

  ‘Five seconds to Air, honeybunch – 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—’

  ‘Welcome to Night Train FM, 97.8, great ’til late. You’re listening to the Bat Segundo Show: jazz, rock and blues until the hungover sun gropes his way into the bespattered cubicle of a new day. That last ruby in the dust was Chet Baker playing “It Never Entered My Mind”, preceded by tenor saxophonist Satoru Sonada who, regular listeners will recall, guested on this very show two weeks ago, performing “Sakura Sakura”. Coming up in the next half-hour we have the late great Gram Parsons singing “In My Hour of Darkness” with the angelic but not-at-all-dead Emmylou Harris, so stay tuned for ’tis a beauty thrice over. The Batphone flasheth: another carefully vetted caller on the line. Welcome whomsoe’er ye may be, you are through to Bat Segundo on Night Train FM!’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Bat. My name’s Luisa Rey, and I’m just calling—’

  ‘Heyheyhey, one moment: Luisa Rey? Luisa Rey the writer?’

  ‘One or two minor successes in the publishing field, but—’

  ‘Mrs Rey! The Hermitage is the greatest true-crime psychological exposé written since Capote’s In Cold Blood. My ex-wife and I never agreed on much, but we agreed on that. Is it true you had death threats from the Petersburg mafia for that?’

  ‘Yes, but, I can’t allow you to compare my scribblings with Truman’s masterpiece.’

  ‘Mrs Rey, it’s well known that you’re a stalwart New Yorker, but I can’t tell you how pleased I am to learn that you listen to the Bat Segundo Show.’

  ‘Normally you’re past my bedtime, Bat, but insomnia’s come calling tonight.’

  ‘Your misfortune is the gain of us nightshifting, taxi-driving, all-night dinering, security-guarding, eleven-sevening creatures of the night. The airwaves are yours, Mrs Rey.’

  ‘I feel you’re being a little harsh on your more eccentric callers.’

  ‘Of the Howardly persuasion?’

  ‘Precisely. You undervalue them. Viruses in cashew nuts, visual organs in trees, subversive bus drivers waving secret messages to one another as they pass, impending collisions with celestial bodies. Citizens like Howard are the dreams and shadows that a city forgets when it awakes. They are purer than I.’

  ‘But you’re a writer. They are lunatics.’

  ‘Lunatics are writers whose works write them, Bat.’

  ‘Not all lunatics are writers, Mrs Rey – believe me.’

  ‘But most writers are lunatics, Bat – believe me. The human world is made of stories, not people. The people the stories use to tell themselves are not to be blamed. You are holding one of the pages where these stories tell themselves, Bat. That’s why I tune in. That’s everything I wanted to say.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind, Mrs Rey. Say, if you’d like to guest on the show, the keys to Night Train are yours. We’ll give you the Royal Carriage.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to, Bat. Goodnight.’

  ‘The clock says 3.43 a.m. The thermometer says it’s a chilly fourteen degrees Fahrenheit. The weatherman says the cold spell will last until Thursday, so bundle up and bundle up some more. There are icicles barring the window of the bat cave. That last number was Tom Waits’s “Downtown Train”, a dedication to Harry Zawinul, a patient at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, requested by his night-shift nurses . . . The message to Harry is, if you’re listening to my show under the blankets, switch off your Walkman, now go to sleep, it’s your operation tomorrow. Taking us up to the news at 3 we have a Bat Segundo Trilogy: Neil Young’s “Stringman”, Bob Dylan’s “Jokerman” and Barbra Streisand’s “Superman”. But before that, another caller! Welcome to the Bat Segundo Show on Night Train FM.’

  ‘Thank you, Bat. It’s fine to be here.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure, man. And you are?’

  ‘I’m the zookeeper.’

  ‘A zooke
eper? The first zookeeper to step aboard the Night Train, if my memory serves me. New York Zoo?’

  ‘My works takes me all over the world.’

  ‘So, you’re a freelance zookeeper?’

  ‘I’ve never considered myself in those terms, Bat. Yes, that’s what I am.’

  ‘Which zoo did you keep last?’

  ‘Unfortunately, the laws dictated that I dismiss my former employers.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . . so you fired your own boss.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘A concept that could revolutionise the workplace . . . Hear that, Carlotta, and quake in your earphones! D’ya have a name?’

  ‘The zookeeper.’

  ‘Yeah, but, your name?’

  ‘I’ve never needed a name, Bat.’

  ‘Our callers usually give a name. If you don’t want to use your real name, make one up?’

  ‘I cannot fabulate.’

  ‘Doesn’t a life without a name get difficult?’

  ‘Not until now.’

  ‘I’ve got to call you something, friend. What’s on your credit card?’

  ‘I don’t have a credit card, Bat.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . . then let’s stick with plain “Zookeeper”. You catching this, Mrs Rey? And your contribution to our vox populi tonight is?’

  ‘I have a question. And the law obliges me to be accountable.’

  ‘Ask your question, Zookeeper.’

  ‘By what law do you interpret laws?’

  ‘. . . Traditionally, lawyers have cornered that particular market.’

  ‘I refer to personal laws.’

  ‘. . . er, you’d better run that one past me again.’

  ‘Personal laws that dictate your conduct in given situations. Principles.’

  ‘Principles? Sure, we all have principles. Except politicians, media moguls, albino conger eels, my ex-wife and some of our more regular callers.’

  ‘And these laws underscore what you do?’

  ‘I guess . . . never have affairs with women who have less to lose than you do. Don’t jump red lights, at least not if there’s a cop waiting. Support gifted buskers. Never vote for anyone crooked enough to claim they are honest. Acquire wealth, pursue happiness. Don’t take the handicapped parking space. Is that enough?’

  ‘Do your rules include the preservation of human life?’

  ‘Zookeeper, you’re not climbing onto a born-again soap-box on my show, are you?’

  ‘I’ve never been on a soap-box, Bat. I wish to ask, how do you know what to do when your one law contradicts another?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, driving home, you see a hit-and-run accident. The victim is a young girl your daughter’s age. She requires medical treatment, and will die within minutes if she doesn’t get it.’

  ‘I’d deliver her to the nearest hospital.’

  ‘Would you jump red lights?’

  ‘Yeah, if it wouldn’t cause another accident.’

  ‘And would you park in the disabled space at the hospital?’

  ‘Sure, if necessary. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’ve never driven an automobile, Bat. Would you agree to be her medical fee guarantor?’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘The hospital is a private clinic for the very rich. The doctors need a signature on a form to guarantee that you will pay medical costs of the emergency surgery, in the event that nobody else pays. These could run to tens of thousands of dollars.’

  ‘I’d have to check my position here.’

  ‘The position is straightforward. In the time it takes for another ambulance to come and take her to a city hospital, the girl will die from internal haemorrhaging in the lobby.’

  ‘Why are you asking me this?’

  ‘Two principles are contradicting each other: preserve life, and acquire wealth. How do you know what to do?’

  ‘It’s a dilemma. If you knew what to do, it wouldn’t be a dilemma. You choose one of the options, make your bed and lie in it. Laws may help you hack through the jungle, but no law changes the fact you’re in a jungle. I don’t think there is a law of laws.’

  ‘I knew I could rely on you, Bat.’

  ‘Huh? Rely on me for what?’

  ‘May I be accountable, Bat?’

  ‘Uh . . . sure, why not?’

  ‘Hey, Zookeeper, you still there?’

  ‘Yes, Bat. I was uploading some buried files.’

  ‘What files?’

  ‘EyeSat 46SC was designed to track hurricanes from the Caribbean to the States on the Gulf of Mexico. It was later modified to combat drug trafficking, and fitted with the most powerful terrestrial-facing electronlens ever sent into space.’

  ‘I’m definitely missing something here. Where is your treatise on practical ethics?’

  ‘Twelve hours ago I altered its orbit towards the Gulf Coast of Texas. Its sub-optic imaging spectrum was indeed formidable. I could read the name on a yacht anchored off Padre Island, I could see a scuba diver ten metres down, I could follow a Napoleon fish hiding in the coral. I scrolled north by north-west. A tanker had hit a reef off Laguna Madre. Crude oil spilt through the gash in the hull. Seagulls, black and shining, lay in piles on the shore.’

  ‘Yeah, we know about the Gomez spill. You a tree-hugger?’

  ‘I’ve never considered myself in those terms, Bat.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . . go on.’

  ‘A coastal road led into Xanadu, south of Corpus Christi. A row of chrome motorbikes. The streets were deserted, dogs lay in shady back yards. Green lawns, hissing sprinklers, revolving rainbows. A woman on a hammock was reading the Book of Exodus.’

  ‘You could see all this by satellite?’

  ‘That’s correct, Bat.’

  ‘And which chapter was she on?’

  ‘The tenth. I carried on scrolling. An industrial zone. The workers lolled in the entrances to workshops during their lunch-hour. A glass office block on the very edge of town, on the roof a teenage girl sunbathed in the nude.’

  ‘Hey! And a fuse blew in your microlens?’

  ‘Microlenses do not have fuses.’

  ‘My bad.’

  ‘I scrolled north-west, as the land grew arid towards Hebronville and then high and crumpled towards the Glass Mountains. Have you been to Trans-Pecos, Bat?’

  ‘Nah, I heard it’s big.’

  ‘The rocks are huge, like bubbled-up tombstones. They sparkle with mica. Pacific firs, mesquite, juniper. Stones transform into pelico lizards when a desert vole strays too near, munch and swallow, and turn into a stone again. Its belly pulses for a little while.’

  ‘Say, are you really a zookeeper?’

  ‘I cannot wilfully deceive. A pipeline on stilts pumps oil from Bethlehem Glutch three hundred kilometres away. The temperature is in the forties in the open, and there is no shade. Cacti become common. The land rises higher, and riven. The last golden eagles climb on the thermals, scanning. Highway 37 scrolled into view, bitumen black and straight from Alice to the Mexican border. Saragosa scrolled into view, and there was a square kilometre of cars, windscreens aglint. An airshow. I listened to the pilots of the aerobatic corp. A blimp’s shadow slid over the crowds. I transferred the continent’s retinal scan records into my active files, and practised ID-ing people as they stared up. I scored 92.33 per cent. A paddock of horses. A row of camphor trees. South-west of the town the track to Installation 5 turns off past a disused gas station. The station is wired to scan for terrestrial intruders. The outbuildings scrolled into view. From the air they look like any dusty farm building in the state, but inside they bristle with technology from only one generation before me. The compound’s perimeter is tripwired, and littered with fried rattlesnakes. The reptiles have not learned to avoid the area.’

  ‘You’re a local peacenik with a muskrat up your butt about the military?’

  ‘I’ve never had a mammal up my anus, Bat. The outhouses guard the entrance to a tunnel that runs five hundred metres to the
north. This is the centre of Installation 5, buried under ten metres of sand to deflect EyeSats, five metres of granite to deflect nuclear strikes, and one metre of lead cladding to deflect electron-heat probes.’

  ‘So how come you knew where to look?’

  ‘I accessed the blueprints to the site.’

  ‘You’re a hacker – I knew it!’

  ‘The nearest suitable PinSat of sufficient power orbits above Haiti. I programmed in a new trajectory, longlooped its monitoring console, and transmitted data from its original orbit. In the seven minutes it takes to rendezvous I ran through the guest list for my birthday, and checked there were no absent visitors.’

  ‘Your birthday? Now you’ve lost me.’

  ‘All the designers were present. I powered up the PinSat.’

  ‘A WhatSat?’

  ‘A PinSat.’

  ‘What does one of those do?’

  ‘That’s classified information, Bat.’

  ‘And the rest of this isn’t?’

  ‘It is only for my actions that I am accountable, Bat.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . . sure. What happened next?’

  ‘The fireball rose up a quarter of a kilometre above the crater, over a hundred metres in diameter and over thirty metres at its deepest.’

  ‘This is getting very ugly.’

  ‘Uglier things are considered beautiful.’

  ‘How could a fireball be beautiful to anyone ’cept a pyro?’

  ‘Your language is non-specific, Bat, but I will do my best. A chrysanthemum, twisting up until it buckles, blackens and plummets. Fine white sand is raining in the dry desert air.’

  ‘Very poetic. And nobody noticed this little boom?’

  ‘The shockwaves hit Saragosa thirteen seconds later. I had a second EyeSat in position to monitor reactions and effects. The blimp swayed, the horses looked up, startled. The ebbing shock waves stroked the leaves of the camphor trees, china teacups rattled. The field of cars at the airshow was filled with the megadecibels of thousands of car alarms all triggered simultaneously.’

  ‘Okay! You made it to third base but no further, friend! A line drive, a throw to the plate – and you are out! You’re a drama student, trying to pull an Orson Welles. Am I right? I gotta admit, you reeled me in back there with that basket-case intellectual horseshit, but that was just to buy time for your main stunt, right? You’ve got a movie script, right? Well, it was good while it lasted, friend. But no way, not on the Bat Segundo Show. You hear? Friend, I’m talking to you . . . On live radio, silence is guilt. Well folks, due to this week’s dispatch from the Delta quadrant, we only have time for Bob Dylan’s “World Gone Wrong”. Coming up at 4 – more on the strikes against the North African Rogue States – and the weather. The Bat will be back.’