The Information Junkie

by Roderick Leyland

  Right, so once Christmas was over and Alan and Yeliena had gone home to Barnes, Belinda and I sat down to work out our futures...our future. Oops, bit of a slip there, buddies.

  'Charlie,' she said, '...'

  Here's something to chew on, buddies. I told you in parts two and three—or was it one and two? Do me a favour—could you check yourself, I'm rather tied up at the moment............................

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  Sorry, I was a bit rude, there. I've just checked: it was parts two and three.

  Now, I told you that Charlie ended up having to go to the doctor, who sent him to a psychologist. Guess what really happened? You've got it in one: I had to go to my doctor (no, no—not Charlie's doctor; I'm talking about me now, not Charlie). So, my doc said:

  'I think a course of medication.'

  Shortly afterwards, when I went to visit him again saying I was beginning to feel better, he said,

  'I still think you should see the psychologist.'

  And that's exactly what happened to Charlie, didn't it? If you think too hard, too deeply, you call forward the future. And if you live it mentally in advance you're cursed to live it again, physically, in the real time scale. Is that what Eliot meant when he said that times past, present and future were omnipresent? (Four Quartets, 'Burnt Norton'.)

  A period of such intense living can often (only) be followed by a stretch of underliving. (Mania followed by, say, depression.) There is, I believe, a battle (oops! I mean a balance) to be struck. Yes, folks: always hit a cheerful psychic. [Think about it. Another word for hit beginning with S; a synonym for cheerful starting H; an alternative to psychic, first letter M. Spank a high mahatma? Slap a heedless mystic? Sock a humorous mind-reader? Smack a high-spirited mystagogue?]

  Sometimes, buddies, there seems to be distance between me and Charlie—two discrete entities; at other times not—just the one persona. What do you make of that? Perhaps I'm playing at being Charlie: acting. There's no doubt that there are bits of me in Charlie and parts of Charlie in me. But I can't tell you about only me. Like displaying my urine-stained bed, that would be self-indulgence, so I dress it up as Charlie. Charlie Smith-Jones-Brown. The blonde, the brunette and the redhead. Are you beginning to detect a pattern? One—two—three.

  Who am I, then? Charlie or narrator? Both and neither, I suppose. Rather do I think of myself as a perpetual actor whose mask keeps slipping. Is this giving the game away, like a bad magician revealing his secrets? And that's poor entertainment, isn't it? Feel free to chip in whenever you like, by the way. I value your views because your credit's high in my rating. Yes: so, the whole thing's a performance.

  Okay, let me call upon precedents. Sterne, first, then the twentieth century ones: B. S. Johnson, the young Amis, to a certain extent...Johnny Fowles. In chapter thirteen of French Lieutenant Fowles says: I have disgracefully broken the illusion? No. My characters still exist, and in a reality no less, or no more, real than the one I have just broken. Fiction is woven into all [....] We are all in flight from the real reality.

  Note 'Real reality'.

  Anyway, if it's good enough for Johnny, it's good enough for me. There's that phrase again: good enough.

  Ibsen, too, as I recall. In the last act of Peer Gynt, the eponymous character is shipwrecked and is afraid he'll die. 'Don't worry,' says his companion. 'The leading man is never killed off halfway through act five.'

  So, what's good enough for Henrik, is good enough for me. A broken illusion can be reconstructed, but it will never be quite the same. There is something uncomfortable about the new reality. Before, as a reader, you could look into Magritte's mirror and see your face but now when you look into the mirror there's danger. Uncomfortable as it may be you run the risk of seeing the back of your head. Or nothing at all. We construct our own comfortable realities and fictions. In many ways I should like to be Charlie; perhaps, you—the gentles—or, at least, the females amongst you, think of yourselves as Belindas. Perhaps not, if you're a feminist—although it's unlikely you would have got this far because of Charlie's laddish behaviour. Unless, of course, you're looking for ammunition. Beaten to death by my own script. Wow, buddies, is that what I'm asking for? Aw, come on buddies, cut me some slack. (I'm not a lover of many North American idioms, but I do like that one.)

  Seem to be back into my stride again, buddies. No, not strides, not slacks or trousers—flying, motoring again, cooking on gas.

  However, back to the story. I left Belinda and Charlie planning their futures (or future), so:

  'Charlie,' she says, '...do you think that...that...that'

  LET'S STOP BELINDA THERE.

  I think it's time to cut the umbilical. Mm? So that Charlie, B and so on can have their autonomy...? No—so that I can have mine. Charlie's dogged me for too long, poised above both my shoulders. I want to liberate him so that I, too, can be free.

  'Bye Charlie. Time to grow up, to face the truth, face reality. Real reality. I'm too old, gentles, to carry on at that pace, too tired. Charlie's got the energy, time to let him use it.

  So, here am I standing at the back of an empty auditorium. There are two people on stage. One looks like Charlie but the other's indistinct. Perhaps it's Belinda, perhaps Ffion. I nearly said, Perhaps it's me, but the other is too blurred to be certain. (Who is that other?) Charlie's smiling. And that's how we leave him: smiling about his future.

  No, I do feel loss and hurt, but I can't detain him any longer. Let's uncage the bird. He has a life to lead. And the other is fading, too; Charlie now stands on his own two foots.[Do you favour roofs or rooves? I had my early education in Scotland. Who said that Scottish education is the best in the world? Probably a Scot. I'm sure I was taught rooves, although COD marks it disp. Chambers is silent on the point. I am also certain we were taught, 'Our Father, who art in Heaven...' Two random thoughts, buddies.]

  He looks up, soaking his face in the spotlight, before making a decision to turn left, no—right, and the spot follows him. Please, respect his wishes—he's a little tired of being prodded, nudged and gawped at.

  He's gone, the stage is empty, the spotlight fades, the safety curtain drops before the house lights fade to black. Then to a black darker than imagination.

  18

  DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, DAMN. Charlie won't leave me alone.

  I've encouraged him to be independent but he keeps popping up behind my shoulder. Listen to him:

  Hi, buddies, I'm back!!! You didn't really think that cutting the umbilical would get rid of me, did you? Friends, Romanovs and country bums, you don't see me off that easily. I come to berate Roddy not to prise him (out of my life). I'll ring in your ears for some time yet. Trust me: I know me. Trust yourselves: you knew the story wouldn't be straightforward. Life ain't, so why should a tale (told by an idiot) be (any) different?

  Now, let me take you back to that day shortly after Christmas when B and I were discussing our futures, or future.

  Oh, yes, gentles: one night—or, more accurately, one morning, in the deadest part of the day when your resilience is at its lowest, you'll wake and see me standing there. Yep, my words will be ringing in your ears. I can't forget him, you'll say, and you won't be able to get back to sleep. You'll feel like the villain waiting for the fuzz to make their dawn raid. [You might also feel like John Bayley when he stayed with Iris Murdoch in Lamb House in Rye, East Sussex—previously the home of Henry James. Bayley tells us, in ‘Iris and the Friends’, that he had come to Rye to give a talk on ghosts and James, and was invited to stay overnight in the house.

  Just before dawn he woke up with a sense of depression and, unable to get back to sleep, rose and looked out of the bedroom window. The view up the cobbled street towards the graveyard and the church was
one which Bayley thought James, the insomniac, must have known well. Bayley felt he was sensing the same desolation that bachelor James must have felt about his emotionally unfulfilled life. Iris smiled when Bayley told her the next day, but he was convinced that Henry James had visited them.]

  Anyway, Belinda and I—

  OH, STOP THIS PRETENCE.

  I mean, Belinda and Charlie. So:

  Belinda and Charlie were discussing their future and she said,

  'Charlie, do you think that we should wait for him?'

  'Yes,' he said. 'Can't do anything without Roderick,' and they both stared at me.

  Oh, come on, you two. Cut me some slack. What are you sniggering at?

  'You've plonked us here, mate,' said Charlie. 'What do we do now?'

  Belinda smiled and lay back provocatively. 'Come on then, genius. Let's see what you're made of.'

  I'm sorry, I have absolutely no idea what happens next.

  Charlie said, 'You can't just leave us here, lying on the carpet. You have a responsibility to fulfil.'

  You've beaten me. Unless you now exploit your autonomy this whole thing will rapidly unravel.

  Belinda sat up. 'Roderick...'

  Please call me Rod.

  'Rod, listen to me. I'm part of you—and it's no use flinching like that. At your age—'

  Aw, come on, I'm only fifty-two—

  She laughed. 'At your age you should know better.'

  There's no fool like an old fool?

  'Got it in one, buddy,' said Charlie.

  'It's also about time,' she went on, 'that you admitted the feminine side of your personality.'

  They both laughed. 'Look at him now!'

  I scratched my head.

  What do you want? More sex?

  They crossed their arms provocatively.

  More money...? More luck...? More adventure...? More risk...?

  Charlie came up very close. 'More life.' He paused. 'Can you handle that, Rod—or, should I say, God?'

  Please, don't blaspheme. I'm in enough trouble as it is, having broken all the rules.

  'Rod,' said Belinda, 'can't you recall your prepared response?'

  Viz...?

  'The final rule is: There are no rules.'

  (Did I say that?)

  Did I say that?

  'No,' she smiled. 'You thought it.'

  Oh, so you're both mediums, now?

  Charlie said, 'Rod, you've made us both middle-aged. We want to live the youth you never gave us.'

  (Oh, dear, there's a bit—or a lot—of me in him. And one day, later in life, he's really going to wake up disillusioned.)

  Charlie smiled before going on: 'And then we want our youth perpetuated.'

  There are a few technical problems, not to mention metaphysical and moral ones...

  'Surely not insurmountable for someone of your genius?' Belinda laughed.

  Genius? Why do you keep saying that? I've never claimed to be one.

  'Oh, yes you have—in your mind—whenever you had a piece rejected: Don't you know you're suppressing a genius? But the technical problem could be resolved quite easily...'

  How?

  'Think of us, that is the three of us, as Siamese triplets. Or Siamese twins still connected to mummy. We're all in this together.'

  Do you think they'll buy that?

  'Well, if they've already bought the book they won't have any choice. Fingers crossed that they don't flick to this page in the bookshop and suss you. We'll also have to appeal to their vanity and intelligence.'

  How?

  'Make them believe it was their idea.'

  I sighed.

  Originally, Charlie, I thought that you'd be good for only two thousand words. I had you down as a ten-sheeter, but you and Belinda have pushed it beyond that. We're now at the thirty-thousand word mark and I don't think I could stretch you to seventy-five. What do you say we call it a day and I leave you blissfully happy on the lounge carpet, contemplating your future?

  They were silent.

  Look: let's call this more an exercise in my development than a fully mature manuscript. I'll stop writing now, plonk this in a drawer and leave fiction writing to those who can.

  There came an unfamiliar voice from behind me:

  'Stop!'

  I turned.

  'You can't get away with that. I won't let you.'

  Sarah...?! How did you know where to find me?

  'You wanted an agent—here I am.' She held a manila folder. 'I'm excited by your work and should like to see more. But remember, I exist only to sell saleable material.'

  But I want to write literary stuff.

  'They all say that—until I flash a few dollar signs in front of them. Everyone has their price, Rod. Even you.'

  I'm a bit embarrassed about that literary party I put you through. Did I go too far?

  'Not far enough, although it's libellous and amateurish in places. But we can rewrite and pull it together.'

  Rewrite...? We...?

  'Oh, yes. You think that all you have to do is sit at your PC and type the first thing that comes into your head, season it with a few established names, and hope an editor will then shape it into a publishable script for you. Good writing is difficult, Rod, needs working at...' she paused...'and what you lack in talent must be made up for in hard work, smart work.'

  There was no mistaking her tone. This was less a case of: Wow, this guy's brilliant! Let's sign him up straightaway. More: We've seen a spark of promise, but you haven't ignited us yet. She watched for my reaction, let the words sink, before:

  'There's a lot of work ahead. Are you up for it? Can you dare to succeed?'

  Only budgies suck seed.

  'I'm sorry...?'

  Just wordplay, Sarah.

  'Careful, Rod. Wordplay alone doth not a novel make.'

  (Then) I don't know if this is what I want. It's been fun writing this, and having a few pieces published in the small press, but I don't know if I have the balls for the marketplace.

  'You'll be fine, Rod, I'll guide you. It'll be a partnership. But I'll need saleable words from you. Every last one.'

  (I nearly said: Every? There can be only one last one. But I resisted the temptation. Odd slip, though, for someone in her line of work, n'est-ce pas? But: you should never upset someone who holds a key. So, instead, I said:)

  Do you treat Jeremy like this?

  'I chivvy all my authors. But the usual difficulty, Rod, is too many words not too few.'

  My problem, Sarah, has always been one of length.

  Charlie chortled.

  Oh, Charlie, can't you stop sniggering for a moment? I'm having a vital conversation here.

  Charlie looked hurt; I regretted my brusqueness.

  Belinda said, 'There, you've brought Sarah to life. Why can't you carry on with us?'

  I'm green, a novice, an aspirant.

  I paused to sigh.

  Come on, fellas, give me a break.

  What choice was there? I had Charlie and Belinda in front of me, and Sarah behind me, crying for action. And, if I'm truthful, I was crying for it too. It's a bit like that moment of risk when you take your first parachute jump. Oh well, here goes...if the 'chute doesn't open, I die. And if I die, then I die.

  *

  I've slept on it: there is a choice. We can carry on with real reality or we can slip back into fictive reality in which I play all the parts, including the rôle of narrator. How many personas can inhabit one person? Or, how many parts can one actor simultaneously play? Graham Greene tells us in Ways of Escape that when he came to revise his novels, often after years of work, he found that he was a different person at the end of the book than he was at the beginning. A writer's characters develop; so does he, and: there is something in his character of the actor...who has lived far too many parts during far too many long runs.

  Now I, too, am beginning to sense a change, a development, almost an alteration. I've already made my choice but I'll give you till the end o
f this chapter to make yours. You may prefer, like me, to sleep on it, or take a break. Cup of tea or coffee, slug of liquor, an infusion of peppermint tea, a glass of designer water with a twist of raspberry—that was Ffion's favourite, remember? She's probably now sipping coffee made from dandelions hand-picked from Dungeness shingle. I must look her up some time. Anyway, whatever you decide—see you in 19!

  19

  Wise choice.

  20A

  So, there I was, deep in the middle of the Kalahari desert with a Kalashnikov pointing at my head, thinking, How the hell did I end up here?

  My battledress was soaked—I could almost taste the salt in my sweat. Blood—also warm and saline—was leaking from a welt on my head which the leader of the rebels had given me earlier. I hadn't drunk for two hours and the sun was crucifying me.

  Three questions fought for supremacy: How much longer did I have? How the hell had I got here? Was it madness to dream of escape?

  The bodies of my compatriots lay around and the words of the rebel leader rang in my head:

  'We will execute one of you every hour until you tell us where the munitions dump is.'

  Mike, the last of my mates had been shot, I calculated, about two hours ago. His body, frozen in an unnatural pose like someone surprised in furtive prayer, lay at my feet. Why were they not carrying out their threat to finish me? Or were their plans for me more exotic?

  I had whispered my goodbyes to Mary and the lads, certain I'd not see them again. Mary knew the score, had begged me to forego this one last tour. Christopher and Timothy didn't know the truth: bless them. How could they—only four and six—understand the passions and drives of the grown-up world?

  'You will tell,' said Nmbmba, the leader, in educated English. 'Before the sun sets, trust me, you will tell.'

  I was determined not to spill the beans, but death now seemed a quick escape, almost a welcome release. I'd made my will years ago—Mary knew where I kept my important papers. She'd find the letter, too.